Happy Eve of Christmas Eve my friends! Here is a fun story I wrote about a lost father, a lost custom and the son who rediscovers both! Enjoy!! Candy Cane I paced at the end of our driveway and waited. The skies were threatening and the winds were increasing. I knew that a storm was coming and the temperature was dropping like a rock. Yet, Dad was not in site. It was December 20th 1959 and I had the feeling that my Dad was not going to make it home. Him and Candy Cane were lost. ********************************************************************** My Dad was a sales rep for a major paint company back when companies rewarded their salesman with good salaries and opportunities. My Dad had chosen the western seaboard from Seattle to San Diego. This meant he had many miles to travel and many people to meet. Dad was born in the hard winter of 1938. His father was a miller and his mom a seamstress. A single child and a gift to two parents who had lost three children to sickness and hard times. He grew to be gifted with an inviting smile and a sharp wit and likable nature. Dad was tall and was an imposing sight, which was humourous because he had not a mean bone in his body. A gentle giant. Dad graduated from high school in 1956. He had the opportunity to advance his education, but a friend of his father's had a connection and Dad was brought into the fold as a trainee at a major automotive paint company. Dad was a quick study and his rise to sales representative was fast and rewarding. His thirst for knowledge was rewarded with the best territory from the company. Like his career, his personal life was very rewarding as well. He married a beautiful woman and eventually they had a son. But that is half the story. Dad in the beginning had a reserved taste for a vehicle that would take him from Portland, Oregon to his west coast adventures. He purchased a 1952 Chevrolet DeLuxe two door coupe. The 216 six was strong enough to pull him across the low lands and almost tough enough to conquer the hills through out the Northwest. As his territory grew, so did the hunger for the countries thirst for an altered vehicle. He realized that as a sales rep for a burgeoning company in the paint industry, he should have a state of the art machine to make others take notice. One of his customers was a young man in Southern California named Larry Watson. Larry was a ball of talent and always asking questions that Dad would have to ask the chemists for technical information. As for a reward, Larry would steer Dad to having his plain Jane Chevrolet into a real eye pleaser. It started out small. Dad delivered a certain secret blend of candy paint to Larry, and in the following 24 hours, his Chevy was nosed and decked. Then came the radius-ed rear fender wells. A Martinez tuck and roll interior job was rewarded for a mention of Larry's shop in a factory bulletin. The little Chevy coupe was lowered, chromed reversed wheels, wide white wall tires. White tuck and roll interior with red piping and a '59 Impala steering wheel. The 216 was determined to be tired and a 292 Jimmy six with a trio of carbs and a split manifold and backed by a Corvette four speed, helped the little car sale like a yacht. In December of 1959, Dad had an extended stay in SoCal. A long meeting with the corporate higher ups and a public relations blitz. His salary was given a boost and it was released that he would start being the director of product advancement on the West coast. To add to his reward, his little coupe was rolled out. The friends he had helped advance with their ideas and determination had worked diligently on his coupe and had created a car that was a billboard for his hard work way out West. It was painted a deep pearl white while a brilliant candy red was sprayed on the wheel wells and the top and dash. Von Dutch hisself lettered Candy Cane just below the rear 1/4 windows, then striped the decklid and did a risque' pinup girl with a candy cane on the glove box door. Dad would later remove the glovebox door and place it into a Ked's shoe box and replace it with a chrome plated piece. He was always wary of offending Mom. Customs Illustrated called the car a ground breaker. Rod and Custom stated that Candy Cane was one of the top five for 1959. Hot Rod magazine ran an article on the engine and how to adapt a Corvette four speed to a Jimmy six. Everything for Candy Cane and Dad was like a dream it seemed. It would be short lived. As he packed up and got ready to head back to Oregon, the weather reports were calling for a severe storm and cold front heading for right for his route home. Undetermined, Dad climbed into Candy Cane, fired her up and disappeared into obscurity. The state patrol days later found tire tracks that were buried and seemed to vanish on highway 26. No wreckage was ever found. Dad just simply disappeared. Days went by and soon news of Dad's disappearance was on every bodies lips. In the February issue of Rod and Custom an article of his vanishing was mentioned by Neal East. And the letters and checks flooded in. Donations from Peterson publishing, the NHRA, George Barris sent a check. Then the paint company Dad had toiled for for his short tenure sent a letter gifting me a scholarship and a pension to support Mom and myself. We survived, but I always stood that anniversary of that night at the foot of the driveway waiting for Dad to come home. Days pass. Years meld into one another. Friends and associates move on or just fade away. I grew and took that scholarship and studied and became a screen writer. I penned commercials, short films and was then given the chance to work on a prime time drama. My work was rewarded and I became a desired pen in the business. Late one November, I was alone in my office. I have a two pictures in my office. One of my Mom and the other of Dad standing next to Candy Cane. His smile is radiant. It is a bright sunny day in Portland, Oregon. I chuckle. Bright sunny days in Portland are not too common, but when the sky breaks, the Great North West is like none other. On a shelf above my scholarship and film awards is the glovebox door from Candy Cane. Bright and as resilient as the day Von Dutch striped it. I pushed myself from my desk, walked to my liquor cabinet and poured a shot of Pendleton whiskey. I took a drink and looked out of my office window. The hard night of Los Angeles was below my window. An array of bright lights and traffic that seemed alive as it snaked itself way through the concrete jungle. I killed my glass and called it a night. It was a week before the anniversary of Dad's disappearance and I decided to drive back to Portland for Christmas. I rented a Shelby Mustang convertible, packed my things and on a whim, for some reason, grabbed the glovebox door from Dad's '52. I planned my route for what Dad drove. This was not the first time I had driven this, but this time, it felt different. I stayed at highway speeds and took in my surroundings. I paused and ate at places that were not part of a chain. When I became weary, I stayed at the old style Motels that advertised colour TV. It was a slower journey than my regular route and it seemed to awaken my senses. I had just passed the Spirit Mountain casino when I saw a small sign advertising an estate sale at the local monastery. The sign was so small that i almost missed it. As an enthusiast of of old Hot Rod magazines, I decided to pull off and see what it was all about. I pulled the Mustang up and killed the engine. One of the brothers approached me with a grand smile, and he spoke, "Hello young man. You are the first to come to our sale!" He took my hands and asked, "What are you looking for?" I smiled and said, "Any old hot rod or old car stuff?" His smile broadened. "Come with me." We walked through the court yard and past a table full of trinkets for sale. He continued and we walked into a long hall way which led to a stairwell. We waked down two flights to a ground floor. He turned to me and then turned on an overhead light. In the center of the room was a car on jack stands and covered with very old canvas tarps. He stopped and asked, "You interested in old cars as well?" and he pulled the tarps off. And revealed my Dad's car. The paint was still in amazing condition. The tires seemed in good shape save for the flat left rear. Von Dutch's striping and lettering were still very vibrant and the Martinez interior was fully intact. I walked to the car and touched it. Smoothe metal. I ran my hand along the top of the door and to the rear fender. The candy red looked brilliant even though it was layered beneath years of dust. And then it hit me. Years of anguish and of loss. Sobs erupted from me. I felt my shoulders heave and shake. The brother rushed to me, concerned. He said, "Why are you so sad? This is a relic from our past! WE saved a young man who had no memory." I wiped my hands across my eyes. Saved a young man with no memory. I though of this. Left rear flat...bad snow storm.....Hmmmm... I asked the brother, "Was there a survivor?" He smiled. The January edition of Hot Rod DeLuxe hit the stands with the faded Rod and Custom cover picture of Candy Cane and the new picture of the as found car. The story was a lost and found/family reunion story. My Dad had been a mere 40 miles from home when a left rear tire went down. In a driving snow storm, he got out and was attempting to change the tire. As he pulled the spare out of the trunk, the wind gusted and the trunk slammed down on his head. Unconscious, he lie beside the car. A brother from the monastery saw the headlights and a figure beside the car. He sounded an alarm and the brethren rushed to his aid. The car was towed and stored. The man was put into a wing of the monastery and he was nursed back to health. Save for his memory. Enter me. My visit that day to the monastery was the key. As I talked to the brother he informed me that the driver was still alive and to this day on the grounds. I was led to a small out building where the old man lived. He was the grounds keeper and maintenance man for the property. He repaired the tractors, staff vehicles and kept the old place in great shape. He had no memory of his past or where his family was. His eyes were like I remembered. He was busy working on a Fordson tractor. The distributor cap was off and his rugged fingers were massaging the points to bring the fire back to the old tractor. I paused. Looked at the brother and said, "Be right back!" I ran back to the my rental car and grabbed the glovebox. I had a theory and it may just work. I rushed back to the lean to where he worked on the tractor. I slowed and walked up to him. I pulled the glove box door out and said, "Mom would not approve of this and why do you have me out so late, Dad?" His grey eyes which were so focused on the mechanical deed at hand lifted and took in the glove box door, then focused on me. 54 long years washed past. It is said that sometimes someone who is in the fog of amnesia can be released with a name or a visual. A voice. Dad was brought back to me with the glovebox door and my voice. "Son?" He asked. Think of all the years that have passed. The years of lost birthdays and holidays. The decades of lost "I love you's" and such. Time of sharing. Time. It was December 54 years later, and in a moment, a spoken word, my Dad was brought back to me. -Written in December of 2013, by Mark "Spooky" Karol-Chik
Wow, @Spooky, great story as usual! Thanks for posting all your writings--haven't missed one yet! Merry Christmas my friend! E
You weave a wonderful tale Sir ! A master of words I read yer tale whilst I sittith on my tail Enjoyed every word Thanks and Merry Christmas to all Sent from my iPhone using The H.A.M.B. mobile app
Having lost my dad on July 4th of this year, this story makes me so glad I got to have him for so many fantastic years.
Thanks @Spooky...I too will now be looking over the vintage mags to see Candy Cane as it sounded like a fantastic Custom built by the Masters. And hopefully the glove box is not far away... Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
Wow. Such a great story . I can see and feel your creative talents coming off the written letters .There is nothing better than a well spun story from beginning to end. Well done
The Jalopy Journal
