Back in the sixties the country was turbulent. Viet Nam was wearing thin on folks. Civil disobedience, riots, mayhem, and hippies were everywhere.  Rock and roll music had become the petulant child of the music scene, much to the elders chagrin.

At least that’s what I was told. Not so much in the small town I grew up. We seemed a world apart from the hectic activities shown on television, if we even watched. Life was simple. My bicycle, the one with a steering wheel, and the Chicago Cubs overfilled my cranium.

Grandpa Willy would pick me up some Saturday afternoons in his 1957 Chevy Bel Aire. Despite age and a little rust – the car, not Grandpa, it was beautiful. He said it was the ‘cream of the crop’ when manufactured. I took his word for it as it was built the same year I was born.  

We’d frequent the local bowling alley. He’d have a beer, me a coke, and we’d watch Cubs games in color. The bar was air-conditioned too, something not found in households in our town. I can still recall the Danley Garage commercials on Channel 9 and Hamms Beer clock on the wall.

Sixty years later, long after Grandpa had passed, I came upon an opportunity to buy a 1957 Chevy Bel Aire, just like Grandpa’s. Someone (not named me) had modified it back to its almost-original grandeur. An aqua “baby” blue, it was a real eye-catcher, just like Grandpa had boasted. I bought the car, wondering if it could possibly have been his.

One Saturday afternoon, I was out cruising in the “Baby,” as the wife would call it, back to my hometown. The busy little community remembered from the 60’s was now bereft of the mom/pop businesses that had lined the streets, all victims of mega box store-itis. The empty streets gave the town an almost reverential quietness. Gone were the busy people and kids like me riding bicycles all over town back in the day. No human activity could be seen anywhere. I was disappointed.  

I drove by the bowling alley, long ago burnt, before stopping for a beer at a nearby tavern. On this Saturday afternoon, I was the lone patron. To make it more morose, they had a White Sox game on big-screen television. After one beer I decided driving the Baby would be more enjoyable.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I bumped my knee on something under the dash. Looking underneath I found a knob that had not been noticed before. It seemingly had no use so I turned it anyway. Nothing happened. Perhaps it had been left over from refurbishing.

Sitting up behind the steering wheel, my head was down, foot firmly on the brake and my right hand twisting the key in the ignition, I fired the Baby up.  She started immediately, and seemingly with more gusto. More raucous than normal I thought.

Peering out the windshield, I did a double take The town appeared differently, perhaps brighter than when I had slid into the seat to leave. People were milling about. The grass seemed greener, the buildings more vibrant, and colors everywhere seemed to pop. What was in that beer, I wondered.

Looking around I saw, to my astonishment, the enormous old grain elevator, the same one that had been in this very spot sixty years ago. It had not been there when I parked. Across the street were bicycles and kids in front of the variety store, eating ice cream bars and drinking pop, much as I had there sixty years ago. Next to it was the bar and grille that seemed the center of the community. The building was closed and for sale when I had drove into town, now people were going in and out.

Putting the Baby in gear, I turned south along the main street, not believing what I was seeing. There was the old community building where my wife and I had our wedding reception all those years ago. The building looked fresh and new, with men congregated outside ready for the fish fry and stag which were held frequently. Next to it was the stately insurance office that was a bank long before I was born. Across the street was the other grain elevator that had a scale for farmers to weigh their trucks. A small post office was across the street in the shadow of that huge and dilapidated old two-story grocery/butcher shop that always looked like it was about to fall into the street.

Block after block, I had been transported back to the sixties to the old town I had known so well in my youth. I was waving at people that I know I had read their obituaries.

On the street of the house where I was raised, a funny thing happened. Standing next to a fire hydrant, leg in the air, was my childhood dog, Ernie Banks. He watched me intensely, as if not believing his eyes. I stopped the car in a lurch. wanting to hug my old pal, who I hadn’t seen in decades. I hit my knee again on that darn knob getting out of the car.

To my shock, as soon as I stepped out of the car, Ernie was gone. He simply disappeared before my eyes. I walked to where he had been, but there was no dog.

Dejectedly, I drove off. Winding my way through the neighborhoods to exit the town, I noticed everything had returned to its dusty, lonely self, the same as when I had driven into town. Heading home, I tried to wrap my head around what had just happened.

It occurred to me though that perhaps it was that knob that brought me back and just how special my car really was. I was sure I had Grandpa Willy’s old ’57 Chevy. I reached under to make sure the knob was still there.

The Baby and I were going to have many fine moments together.