An invitation to the Concours de’ Elegance of America says it all.
My love affair with the 1957 Chevrolet started in 1959 at age 6, when my older brother bought a 210 and painted it candy apple red. With a mother who worked evenings and a sister at college, my brother was often asked to babysit me – which occasionally included cruising our hometown in his ’57.
One early November evening, he decided to test a freshly-resurfaced red clay road. I took my place, perched in the front seat aside my big brother. He hit the gas, fishtailing from side to side, then losing control and sliding into a large pile of dirt by the side of the road. As few 1957s had seatbelts, I flew headlong into the dash. I still have memories of the radium dial and hands on the car’s rectangular dash clock as we met. The car stalled in the dark with the only light coming from the dash gauges. My brother’s first instinct was to check on me. In the dim light he could see dark liquid with small white pieces coming from my mouth. He feared the worst, but quickly discovered it was actually Halloween candy corn that I’d been eating. He warned me if I told anyone about this our mother wouldn’t let me ride with him again. It was years before either of us spoke of the incident.
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