Camelot: A Family Saga

By Ken Blaisdell

"Camelot: A Family Saga" is the story of three generations of one family that journeyed in that simple yet special 1963 Falcon through a decade that saw assassinations that shocked the world; a war that divided the country; hippies and peace marches; a three-day rock concert never to be repeated; political turmoil; and landing a man on the moon ... all of the good and the bad times, the triumphs and tragedies, and the long overdue social changes that marked the sixties as a momentous turning point for the nation and the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Blaisdell
• Release date: Mar 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9780984925773

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Camelot

A Family Saga

As told by

Ken Blaisdell

Copyright © 2018 by Ken Blaisdell

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The following is a work of fiction..

All rights reserved.

Neither the whole nor any part

of this work may be reproduced

in any form without the

written permission of the author.

Published in USA by

Lightkeeper Press

ISBN: 978-0-9849257-7-3

Cover art by

Jenn Dueker

e-book formatting provided by

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is dedicated to my wife, Diane. Without her support and encouragement, as well as her feedback and critique, it would probably not have been completed. I love you!

1999

When I first saw the Falcon, it was at the gas pumps at a Circle-K, with its roof down and its hood up. A young man of thirty-five, or so, was peering into the engine compartment, but from the look on his face and his body language, it didn't appear that he knew what he was looking for … or probably looking at.

Nice car, I said as I walked over while my own tank filled. Having a problem with it?

Prologue: A Mother's Passing

1962

Saturday, October 6

Phoenix, Arizona

It had been a week since the funeral, but Paul Addison was still feeling the anguish of losing his mother to a sudden heart attack. At 77 years old, she looked ten years younger, and had always been healthy, and as sharp and active mentally as she was physically. Her death was a complete shock.

As hard as the funeral arrangements, the church service, and the reception had been, Paul knew that getting all of his mother's affairs in order and cleaning out her apartment was going to be worse.

Although it was not the home where Paul had grown up—his mother moved out of the always-in-need-of-repair Craftsman-style bungalow after his father had died—Paul knew that his mother was a keeper of family mementos, so he was sure he was going to uncover all manner of things that would pull memories out of the cobwebbed corners of his mind. Even the pleasant memories—especially the pleasant memories, in fact—would remind him that he was the last of the family.

Paul's wife, Helen, was with him in the eerily quiet apartment. She was there as much for support as to help in organizing her mother-in-law's financial affairs. Paul was orderly, but Helen was organized to the point of near-obsession. Plus, she was a bookkeeper by profession, so it made sense for her to go through Lydia's checkbook, desk, and file cabinet while Paul sorted through all of the personal things.

As Helen took a seat at the roll-top desk, Paul went to his mother's bedroom with an armload of empty cardboard boxes. He opened the closet, and looked at the clothes hanging there. Some of the dresses were older than his son, who was a junior in high school. There were also some that were so new that they still had the tags on them.

He and Helen had decided that they should donate all of the clothes and shoes to the clothes charity at Lydia's church, so he began taking groups of four or five items at a time off the pole, folding them into thirds, and laying them into the largest of his boxes, hangers and all.

One outfit, a frilly white dress with a flower print and a high collar, Paul could remember her wearing when she and his father went out dancing. His eyes began to water. Yup, this was going to be hard.

After the clothes were packed, he put all of her shoes in another box, and then he turned to the various size and shape boxes on the top shelf and on the floor.

In one shoebox there were three bundles of letters, tied with ribbons. Two of the stacks all bore the distinctive V-Mail logo and the small window with an address showing through. They were all of the letters that he and his brother, Hal, had sent home during the war. Hal's group, of course, was smaller, because he had been killed on June 6, 1944 during the second-wave of the assault on Omaha Beach.

The third group, which was larger than the other two combined, was all civilian mail in various size envelopes. Paul flipped through the top right corner of the stack, and saw that the postmark dates were all in order, and went back to December of 1906. He looked at the addresses, and saw that they were letters back and forth between his mother and his father, no doubt while they were courting.

He wanted to read a couple of the earliest ones, but he knew that if he got started, he probably wouldn't stop. He set the box on the floor, near the door, to take with him.

Other boxes held similar mementoes. Photographs, report cards, hand-made birthday cards. One small box contained two tiny pairs of white leather shoes; most likely Hal's and Paul's first shoes. He put all of the boxes in his take-home pile. He would go through them later … someday.

Next, he went to his mother's dresser. It was a piece of furniture that he remembered from his childhood. It was old then, and it was still in excellent condition. He wondered if it was worth anything as an antique.

Starting with the bottom drawer, he took out variously aged sweaters, slacks that ranged from old to nearly-new, socks for all seasons, and pajama sets from a delicate pink silk to grey flannel.

The top drawer contained all of her underwear. As he picked up one of the neatly folded piles, his fingers happened to rap against the drawer bottom, and it struck him that it made a hollow sound. He tapped again, and confirmed it. He tapped one of the empty draws, and didn't get the same sound.

He put his index finger of one hand inside against the drawer bottom, and the same finger of the other hand underneath. He could easily tell that the drawer bottom was much thicker than the others. It had a false bottom!

Intrigued, Paul finished removing the underwear, and then slid the drawer from the frame. He set it on the bed, and began peeling back the contact paper that covered the bottom and went two inches up each of the sides. He had originally assumed that it was there to keep the delicate items from catching on any wood splinters, but now he believed it was there to keep the false bottom securely in place.

As he peeled, Helen came into the room carrying a piece of paper.

I found your mother's life insurance policy, she said. "The good news is that it's for $750. Considering it was taken out in 1935, that would have been a pretty generous amount for a woman, back then.

The bad news is, she went on, "that she never got around to changing the beneficiary after your father died. You'll probably have to go to court or something to prove you're the sole survivor to get them to write you the check.

The other good news is that her checkbook is in pretty remarkable condition. Everything seems to be paid up through last month, and there's a balance of a little over $600. Between the two, we won't have to take anything out of our savings to pay the funeral home and square everything away.

That's great, Paul said as he peeled.

What are you doing there? Helen asked, seeing that he was obviously distracted from what she was telling him.

Listen to this, he said, and then rapped on the drawer bottom. Then he did the same to another drawer. Hear the difference? This one's hollow. It has a false bottom.

Why? Helen asked.

Exactly what I want to find out, Paul replied as he peeled back the last side.

Using the now-loose flaps of the contact paper as handles, Paul pulled up on the false bottom. It did not come out easily, however. It fit so snuggly that even without the liner holding it in place, Paul was sure that he could have turned the drawer upside-down, and the panel would not have dropped out.

It finally broke free, and as Paul set the bottom aside, he and Helen stared slack-jawed into the drawer.

Holy moly! Helen said, barely above a whisper, as she and Paul looked at dozens of hundred dollar bills covering the real drawer bottom.

Holy smokes! Paul agreed.

They picked up the bills, and between them counted exactly one-hundred. Ten-thousand dollars!

Do you think your mother knew this was here? Helen asked. Do you know where the dresser came from before she got it?

She's had it as long as I can remember, Paul said. I always figured they bought the whole bedroom set new, when they got married.

Suddenly, something told Paul to look at the underside of the false bottom that he had set on the bed. There, stuck to the wood was a piece of yellowed paper. He picked at one corner, and it easily broke free. He turned it over, and read in large letters across the top, Western Union.

Aloud, he read:

"THE SECRETARY OF WAR WISHES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEPEST REGRETS THAT YOUR SON CORPORAL HAROLD E ADDISON JR WAS KILLED IN ACTION ON SIX JUNE 1944 IN FRANCE LETTER FOLLOWS=

ULIO THE ADJUTANT GENERAL."

He looked at Helen, and said, Hal was killed on D-Day. I was in the Pacific, and didn't even know until months later. This is the telegram my Mom and Dad got.

He picked up a dozen or so bills, fanned them out, and looked at their dates. These are all 1934 bills, he said. I'll bet this is the life insurance payment they got from the Army, and it's been hidden here ever since.

But why? Helen asked. You think maybe she put it away for some rainy day that never came along?

That sounds like her, he answered. I'll bet that she couldn't bring herself to just up and spend it on anything personal like a vacation or even a car, because it would feel too much like profiting from Hal's death. She was never able to even talk about it.

What about you, now that you're the heir to the family's hidden fortune? Helen asked.

Well, I'm not going to spend it like a sailor on leave, he said, but I'm not going to hide it in my underwear drawer until I pass away, either.

If you put it in the bank, Helen pointed out, we'll have to report it on our income tax in April.

The IRS can sit on it and rotate! he replied in stronger language than he normally used. Hal gave his life for his country; they don't need tax money from his death benefit on top of it.

True to his word, Paul did not hide the money in his underwear drawer. He double-wrapped the half-inch thick stack of bills in aluminum foil, and wedged it between the bathroom wall and the tank of their toilet.

Chapter 1: The White Horse

1963

Friday, May 31

Phoenix, Arizona

Dinner's almost ready, dear, Helen called out from the kitchen.

In the living room, Paul was studying the array of brochures that covered every inch, and hung off the edges of the coffee table. Spread before him was sales information on every convertible that Ford offered for 1963. He was determined to make a decision today, so that he could go buy the car tomorrow.

Doug, the couple's 17-year-old son, and only child, chuckled as he entered the room, seeing his father's neat layout and spacing of the literature.

Across the edge of the table, farthest from Paul, were full color brochures for the Lincoln Continental, and the Thunderbird. In a middle row were booklets for the Ford Fairlane and the Mercury Comet. Nearest his father were the ads for the Falcon Futura and the Galaxie 500. All of the brochures were open to the pages showing each model's convertible offering.

From the time in the late '30s, when Paul had become interested in cars and girls—the two going inextricably hand in hand—he had wanted a rag top. Back then, at 17, he considered himself lucky to be driving anything, however, and that anything turned out to be a 1928 Model-A Ford sedan that he bought in partnership with his older bother, Hal.

By the time Hal moved on to a later-model Chevy in 1940, and Paul took sole possession, the Model-A wasn't very stylish. But it was pretty reliable, and when it did break down, his mechanically-minded friends could usually get it going again with junk-yard parts, which were plentiful, and cheap. His experiences with the Model-A—including necking in the big back seat—made Paul a loyal Ford man for the rest of his life.

And since this would be the first—and probably the only—new car Paul would ever buy, there wasn't a Chinaman's chance, as he put it, that it would not be a convertible.

Standing next to the table, Doug tapped on the photo of the T-Bird. "This is my vote, he said. That's pretty cool!"

Maybe if they'd left the body alone in 1960, his father replied. I don't like the looks of it anymore, with that pointy nose. Looks like a big chisel coming down the street.

The Lincoln's not pointy, Doug said. He knew that his father would have arranged his least favorites the farthest away from himself, and he was having fun with him.

Who in the world needs a four-door convertible except the president? he replied. Besides, I can buy two-and-a-half of these others for what they want for that.

"If you want a cheap car, you should buy a VW Beetle. They make them in convertibles, you know, Doug teased. You and Mom would look pretty cute driving around in one of those."

Your Uncle Hal died defeating the Germans, Paul replied seriously. "The last thing I'd ever do is buy a car from them."

Like most of the Greatest Generation, especially those who had actually been in the war, Paul was staunchly patriotic. It was why he had voted Republican for Eisenhower—both times—and then switched to the Democrat, Kennedy, in the last election. They were both war heroes.

Doug—who was named after another of his father's heroes, General Douglas McArthur—was just as American, but he saw the enemy as the Communists. To him, the war with Germany was something they taught in history class. But he certainly knew better than to push his father's buttons on the subject, and he immediately backed off.

Sorry, Dad. You're right, Doug said. But how about the Corvair? I've seen them in rag tops. Pretty slick.

It looks like a bathtub on wheels, Paul replied. "And it's a Chevy. Besides, it's air cooled. Just like your Volkswagen. It got up to 111-degrees here last July; it'd be overheating every summer."

Paul was overlooking the fact that it was the same 111-degree air that cooled the water in his Ford radiator, but then he was a head waiter, not a mechanic.

"So, which one are you leaning towards, Dad?"

The Galaxie, I think, Paul said without looking up from the photos and specifications. It's about five hundred bucks more than the Falcon, but I think we can afford it.

With his brother's death-benefit inheritance, Paul could have bought the Lincoln, if he'd wanted it, but he and Helen had not told Doug—or anyone, for that matter—about the money.

There were two main reasons. First, while Paul was able to justify, in his own mind, hiding the money from the IRS, he still saw it as tax evasion, and Paul was not comfortable with teaching his son that it was okay to cheat, even if you felt you had good cause. And that led to the second reason; guilt.

Paul felt a little guilty about not being honest with his son about the money, and because he knew that he had lied on his tax return about it, but mostly—as he suspected his mother had—he felt uncomfortable about enjoying the money from his brother's death.

It had taken a lot of soul-searching, long conversations with Helen, and praying for guidance before he could rationalize spending even some of the money on a luxury like a new car.

Helen called out that dinner was ready, and Paul got up and walked into the kitchen with his son.

Doug piled food onto his plate, poured a glass of milk, and headed back to his room.

Seated at the table a few minutes later, Paul pushed his fork through Helen's meatloaf, scooped up a bit of mashed potatoes, and topped off the forkful with a few peas. Just before putting it in his mouth, he said, I want to drive up to Don Sanderson's in the morning. I've decided I'm going to buy the Galaxie convertible. Black with a red interior.

That'll be nice, she replied. We need a new car, and you've always wanted a convertible; I'm sure Lydia would be happy that you're using part of the money that way. And Hal, too. But isn't Don Sanderson way out in Glendale? I thought you'd be going to Camelback Ford where Bobby Wills works.

Bobby Wills was on Paul's bowling team, and was a salesman at Camelback Ford. He was a natural salesman, and since his discharge after the war, he had sold everything from Fuller Brushes, to aluminum siding, to kitchen appliances, and cutlery guaranteed to never need sharpening.

I like Bobby well enough to bowl with and have a couple of beers, Paul said, shifting his mouthful of food to one cheek, "but I wouldn't trust him to get me a good deal. He's a salesman first, and a friend second, you know what I mean?

Besides, he says their inventory is kind of low, right now. The ad in last Sunday's paper says Sanderson has virtually every make and model of Ford on the lot, and they're ready to deal to move them out.

That makes sense, dear, Helen said with a hint of a grin. She knew that her husband, having taken more than two months to research and compare all of the models that Ford offered, and having finally decided on which to buy, would not want to order and have to wait for the car of his dreams.

Helen knew that Paul took a long time to reach a decision, but once he did, he didn't like having to wait any longer. They had dated for five years, and when he finally asked her to marry him, he wanted to have the ceremony that weekend. She prevailed that time, and they were married six months later … but that was an exception to the rule.

Saturday, June 1, 1963

Driving his 1949 wood-paneled Country Squire station wagon Paul turned off of Grand Ave., and onto the Don Sanderson lot, eager and excited. At nine in the morning, it was sunny and almost 80-degrees; perfect convertible weather! Never mind that by mid-afternoon the temperature would be pushing 95.

Paul drove along a row of gleaming new Fords, many with their hoods up, including at least half a dozen Galaxies … not one of which was a convertible, however.

He parked in a slot marked Customer, and before he could open the door, a man about his own age, with a broad smile, thin mustache, and hair slicked straight back over his head was walking toward him.

Opening the door for Paul, the man said brightly, Welcome to Don Sanderson Ford, Mr. …?

Addison. Paul Addison, he answered.

The man shook Paul's hand, and said, Larry Reilly. Pleased to meet you, Paul. He looked over the top of the car where Helen had just gotten out. And this must be the missus, he said. How are you, Mrs. Anderson?

Addison, she corrected him. She sensed immediately that she was not going to like him.

So, decided it's time to retire the old woody, huh? Larry said. Thumping the roof, he added, Ford has certainly made some changes since this old termite nest rolled out of the factory, huh? Am I right? Of course I'm right, or you wouldn't be here, today, would you? So, what can I show you, Paul? Frankly, you look like a T-Bird man to me.

Not really, Paul answered as Larry led him toward the showroom door, leaving the missus to catch up on her own. I've settled on a Galaxie 500. The convertible model.

The Sunliner! Larry said. Yes! Great choice! Well, that saves us a lot of time, not having to shop around, doesn't it? Sure it does. Holding open the door, he waited for Helen this time, and then said, Why don't you folks have a seat at my desk right over there? Can I get you a bottle of Coke or something?

Sure, said Paul. Thanks.

You don't happen to have TaB, do you? Helen said.

Oh, it's on the house! Larry responded. Don't even worry about it.

No, Helen replied, "TaB is a new diet soda that Coca-cola just came out with; I read about it in Life; I've wanted to try it."

Ah! Watching the old waistline, huh? Larry said. He patted his own somewhat generous stomach, laughed, and added, Maybe I should think about switching, too, huh? Let me see what I can scare up. Go on and have a seat; I'll be right back.

As they walked to the desk, a white Falcon Futura convertible—with its top down—was driving past the showroom window. Paul stopped and silently watched it until it disappeared from view around the corner.

Even though he had studied many photos of the Falcon, even convertibles painted white, seeing one cruise by with its roof down and all of its chrome glinting in the morning sun made an impression on him like no brochure could have.

His curiosity was suddenly piqued about that model more than it had been before, and he turned and scanned the showroom to see if there was one on display that he could look at more closely. The only convertible in sight was a big black Continental, looking like it was waiting for JFK and Jackie to step out of one of the offices.

Just then Larry reappeared carrying a bottle of Coke, and a can of TaB.

This must be your lucky day, Mrs. Anderson, he said handing the can to Helen. Turns out we had some, after all. I never even heard of it, to be quite frank.

In fact, Larry had simply taken the can of soda—nestled tightly with a brown-bag lunch—from the employee refrigerator. It belonged to the office manager, Diane, who had gotten it as an advance sample from her neighbor, Joyce, who was an executive with Coke in Phoenix. Having only been introduced on the first of May, in Massachusetts, it was one of the few cans in non-Coke-employee hands west of the Mississippi. It would be another couple of months before the stores in Phoenix would carry it. Diane, like Helen, was looking forward to seeing if the taste lived up to all of the hype.

Helen accepted the soda, but didn't bother to correct him about her name, again; she thought it might be amusing to have him fill out the bill of sale for Paul's new car with the wrong last name, and have to do it all over again.

All right! Larry said dropping down into his chair behind the desk. Let's get you into that Galaxie!

Do you have one in black with a red interior? And wire spoke hub caps? Paul asked. Even while he described the Galaxie he wanted, the image of the white Falcon danced in his head. It had had the wire spoke hubcaps.

I think we do! Larry said. But tell you what; before we take it for a test drive, let's get the paperwork out of the way, so you'll be ready to drive away when we get back. He slid a printed form out of a drawer, and pushed it and a pen across the desk in front of Paul.

Helen cocked her head to look at it. What is it? she asked having never been through the experience of buying a new car.

Oh, just the usual information, Larry said. Name address, employer, what you're trading in, stuff like that. This way our finance people can get everything ready while you're out test driving your new car, so you don't have to hang around all day. Look at it out there. Who wants to be stuck in here on a day like this? Especially if you can be driving down the road in a brand new car!

We're not trading in our car, Helen said. "That's going to be my car."

Oh, I see, said Larry.

Helen sensed that he was disappointed for some reason.

He was. It was because low-balling a customer on the value of their trade-in often put more commission in his pocket. He already referred to the woody as old, and a termite nest, and he had hardly started. Given enough time, he could almost get a customer to pay him to take their jalopy away. Apparently not this time, though.

And we don't need to finance, Paul said, just a little timidly. We'll be paying cash. We've been saving for a long time, he added, as if an explanation for having that much money was necessary.

"Oh," Larry repeated.

This time, Helen wasn't sure if his tone was one of disappointment or excitement. Were cash sales good or bad for a salesman? It seemed to her that a cash deal would always be better.

Financing was better for the dealership—they got a cut of the interest when they sold the loan—but Larry liked people with cash. They seemed to think they were shrewd, and Larry enjoyed proving otherwise. Rarely did someone have only the exact amount to buy the car of their dreams; there was always a little more in the pot that Larry could extract by upgrading to the bigger V-8, mating it up with the automatic transmission, adding the deluxe trim package, and piling on other over-priced options.

You're one of a rare breed, Paul, Larry said. My hat's off to you for being able to save like that. I wish I had that kind of discipline, I'll tell you that. He tapped the form, and went on, So, I guess we can forget all this other stuff, but if you'll fill out this top part here, name and address, and so forth, I'll go get a license plate so we can take your Galaxie for a spin.

He leaned in a bit closer, and added conspiratorially, "I'll tell you the truth, Paul, I can really use this sale, so I'm going to do whatever I can to see you drive off the lot in that car today. Fact is, I sell more cars than anyone else here, but I don't bring in as much money, because I'm always looking out for my customer, trying to get him the best deal, you know? And you know why I do that? Loyalty. If I'm fair with you, I think you'll be fair with me. I want you to come in here and ask for me by name when it's time to buy your next car."

In point of fact, Larry had never sold a second car to the same person in his career.

As Larry got up to go get the dealer license plate, Paul slid the form over to Helen. Your handwriting is much better than mine, he said. It was a profound understatement.

As she filled in the few lines in textbook-perfect cursive, Paul got up to go look at the Continental.

When she was finished, Helen walked over to join her husband. Looking beyond the big black car, her attention was drawn to a woman of about her own age seated behind the glass wall of the manager's office. Two things about the woman caught her interest.

The first was that she appeared to be alone. Helen had noticed her when they first arrived, and had assumed that her husband was using the men's room or off looking at his favorite car. Now, in the office with the door closed, she got the impression that there was no Mister. It wasn't unheard of, of course, but it was probably unusual for a woman to be buying a new car on her own.

The second thing was that she appeared to be angry. Helen couldn't see her face as she talked to the manager, but from her body language, her hand gestures, and the crisp motions of her head, she got the impression she was giving the guy what-for about something.

Apparently accustomed to unhappy customers, he just shrugged and made a what-can-I-do gesture with his hands.

Finally, she pushed something across the desk at him.

The manager held it up to read, and Helen could see that it was a check.

He handed her a piece of paper, she folded it, and put it in her purse. She then stood up, opened the office door, and walked out.

Helen watched her cross the showroom, apparently muttering to herself, and turn down the corridor under the Restrooms sign.

Just then, Larry appeared carrying a license plate with spring-loaded clips dangling from its mounting holes. Shall we? he said, motioning toward the showroom door.

You go on, Helen said to Paul. I'll be right there; I need to powder my nose.

Of course, of course, Larry said. You take your time. We'll be about half way down this row right outside the doors. The powder room is right around that corner.

As Helen walked off in the other direction, Paul and Larry headed for the door.

Paul was a little confused. This was the row of cars that he had driven by on his way in, and he hadn't noticed a convertible in the line-up.

Inside the ladies room, Helen found the woman standing at the mirror, taking deep breaths, and dabbing at the mess her tears had made of her mascara.

Hi, I'm Helen. Is everything okay?

Well, I was just forced into buying a car that I don't want, and since I drove myself here thinking I was going to get the deposit back, I don't even have a way to get it home so I can sell it, so I guess I'd have to say no.

She looked at herself in the mirror for a few more seconds, hung her head for a moment, and then turned to Helen. I'm sorry; you're just being kind, and I'm snapping at you like you had anything to do with my mess. She extended her hand, and added, I'm Paige. I do appreciate your asking.

Larry led Paul up the row of cars, and stopped behind a gleaming black Galaxie 500 XL. He knelt down and started to clip the temporary license plate to the bumper.

Um, this isn't a convertible, Paul said.

You did say you wanted a Galaxie, right? Larry said as he clipped.

Yes, but a convertible.

Well, the only two convertibles on the lot today are the Continental you were looking at inside and a red T-Bird across the way, over there, Larry said. If you want to drive away today in a Galaxie, this is the top of the line.

Paul looked over at the Thunderbird. He really didn't like its looks. And he didn't want a red car. He shook his head. It has to be a convertible. I've wanted a rag top my entire life. Are you sure you don't have anything else? I saw a white Falcon drive by a while ago. What about that one?

It's not for sale, Larry said, standing up. It's been here since February, all tied up in legal mumbo-jumbo. It's a custom order, and the guy who ordered it never came back to take delivery. I probably could have sold it a dozen times by now if the front office could get it all straightened out.

Larry put his arm around Paul's shoulder. Look, I know you've got your heart set on a convertible, and I'm going to take care of you, trust me, but why don't you get behind the wheel of this one, for now, and see how it handles, see what kind of power this sweetheart has. You can pretend it's your rag top with the roof up, right? Of course you can! Then we'll come back and we'll write up an order for your exact car. How's that sound?

It sounded great to Larry. Selling off the lot, he was limited to how many dealer-installed options he could add to the sale. With a special order from the factory—in which he helped the customer select the options—the sky was the limit.

Paul slid behind the wheel into the bucket seat. His son called them birth-control seats, because a guy and his girl couldn't make out in them. The seat was comfortable enough, but Paul liked a bench seat better.

With a gentle, almost reverent touch, he traced the outline of the big, dished-shaped, three-spoke steeling wheel with its recessed chrome horn ring. It was so much more modern looking than the flat wheel of his '49.

He looked at the instrument cluster, and touched the heater, lights, and wiper control knobs, and looked at the radio. His car had a radio, but it hadn't worked in a couple of years—probably one of its vacuum tubes.

He noticed that the Galaxie had the factory-standard three on the tree manual transmission. He would order his with the automatic—an option that wouldn't even have been available for