On Sundays, my parents and I would go to my Aunt Rose’s house to either just visit or take her for a ride in her nice car.  I think Aunt Rose was my grandmother’s sister, which would, technically, make her my great aunt.  Her husband had passed away before I was born.  (Both my grandfathers had, as well.)  She lived in this really big, two-story house at the end of North Court Street, next to the Armory.  It had to be one of the biggest houses in town at the time, and in a prime location.  It had a multicar garage and a rather large backyard with a huge tree in the middle.

For many years later I would have dreams about that house.  I would see myself going from one room into another one and into another one.  It was always quite an adventure.

Aunt Rose’s car was a bluish-gray 1950 Chrysler Windsor.  Built like a tank.  This was long before car manufacturers started using a lot of fiberglass on cars.  It was quite comfortable inside and must have been a luxury car of its time.  A   unique feature was its semi-automatic transmission.  A shift lever was mounted on the steering wheel which was used to do some, but not all, of the shifting.

I got to know that car quite well because it later became the first car I would drive.  When Aunt Rose passed away there was a big family battle over her estate.  My mom and her four brothers, particularly Uncle Scott, argued about who got what for quite some time.  It seemed to affect their relationship for years.  The result was that we got the car.  I must have been 10 or eleven years old at the time, which meant the car was 13 or 14 years old.  Back in those days that was pretty old.  But with my dad being the best mechanic around, he kept it running until I finally blew the engine.  That happened shortly before he died while he was in the hospital.  I couldn’t tell him what had happened and kept that tragedy to myself.