Northeaster Coming. Get the Chains on the Car! - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

Northeaster Coming. Get the Chains on the Car! - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

Bob Whitcomb wrote in a recent GoLocal treatise about the car culture, a romance wherein he rekindled his memories of how he was obsessed, as were so many in the 50s and 60s, with cars.

The arrival of a new car was an event in our neighborhood also. Excited, we inched closer to admire its newness. Friends and neighbors threw nickels and pennies in for good luck. I remember the day Dan showed us something newfangled and innovative — a turn signal’s flashing lights just below the headlights. I loved a new car’s smell. In fact, I recently bought a car deodorizer titled, you bet, ‘new car smell’.

It was unusual to see a car with color, as most of the men (it was the rare woman who drove) bought black cars for fear that color was not yet resilient enough.  Most cars were heavy, almost like tanks, especially my Uncle Carlo’s Packard which looked and sounded like an armored vehicle as it rumbled down and trembled our small street.

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In winter, the men readied their vehicles for oncoming snowstorms; storms that thrilled Uncle Carlo who instilled the excitement of a winter’s adventure in me.  He combined thrill with an ever-present desire to help people. When it snowed, uncle was fearless and ready. Puffing his ever present cigar tucked at the corner, he summoned, “This is a Northeaster, Edward. Let’s go!” 

He and I skidded into his truck to battle the elements and to help a motorist in distress. The truck was a ’49 Dodge, two door, panel with two cloth-covered seats. A balky, erratic heater whirred. When my feet were cold, my chest was warm and when my feet were warm, I was cold.

I loved it. Staying at home during a “Nor’easter” was simply out of the question. “Let’s pull ‘im out,” he beamed when he spotted an impacted vehicle.

I remember those snow days when Dad had to get to work at Quonset Point, some twenty-five miles from our home. When he smelled an oncoming storm the night before, it was time to apply the dastardly chains; no such thing as studded tires. Oh, my goodness, what an effort to jack the car and trim those tires with those heavy bindings. It was a bear of an effort, but those fetters allowed Dad to pick up passengers at 4:30 in the morning for the trek to work.

One evening, a neighbor’s jack slipped off the bumper and trapped him under a wheel while he was applying the chains. We watched while two of the stronger men lifted the car as he slid out. Save for a sore shoulder, he was fine. From his tongue came a slew of newfangled words strung together so effortlessly.

It was not long after a thaw that we could hear the slams of sloppy chains pounding, near destroying, the pavement and rattling the cars’ fenders.

Yes, I too remember a romance with cars, one that pervaded all seasons.

“Get the chains!”

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.”  Learn more here.