Today we continue a holiday tradition, born years back when I wrote some freelance columns for the Tribune-Democrat and I took it upon myself to update the words to Christmas songs.
Back then I didn’t have carte blanche in terms of space and publication dates, so I had to pack fresh lyrics to several songs into each submission. With the freedom of a blog, writing as often, or infrequently, as I desire, I’m planning on one example per blog post.
Today’s inspiration comes from my late teenage years (and early 20s, perhaps) when most of my friends and I drove cars that were roadworthy only if you squinted hard and took a few hits of your favorite adult beverage.
We used to carry wire hangers with us, the better to use to secure fallen exhaust systems, hold down a hood, or keep a balky door closed. Hammers, to beat on hit-and-miss starters, also were common.
I had a 1973 Pinto whose overhead cam belt used to skip a few teeth at high RPMs. I carried a box wrench, 9/16s of an inch as I recall, so that when it happened I could stop the car, lift the hood, loosen the distributor hold-down bolt, and re-time the thing by ear.
On one trip to Pittsburgh, for a Pitt-Penn State game, I failed to have the wrench along. The belt skipped and the car ran progressively rougher and rougher before failing totally, just as I pulled in front of my house to conclude the return journey The ignition points were burned out.
Our cars rode on tires of questionable pedigree, with engines that were rated in miles-per-gallon of oil they burned, rather than miles-per-gallon of gasoline consumed.
My brother once used a sweeper hose to connect the side exhaust pipes on his Camaro.
Repeat, we drove heaps.
As an ode to that time, here’s a few verses to be sung to the tune of “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire)”
Fenders flapping on the open road,
Tires that have given up the ghost.
Fading brakes little more than a joke,
And what bothers me the most, is the heater’s broke.
But, what the heck, it gets me there.
Sometimes even gets me back.
And though you may say, it has seen better days.
It’s my car.
It’s my car.
It’s my car.
That wreck!
Sam Ross Jr's site 