Ol’ Betsy

by Kathleen De Witt

In the early 1950’s, a new car was still a luxury for most families, and the arrival of the new model year was a true event, heralded for weeks in advance on the radio and in newspapers. Fathers and Mothers, with children in tow, would head to the local automobile dealer where the atmosphere was like a country carnival with hot dogs, popcorn, sodas, balloons for the kids, and brochures and key chains for the adults. Local radio celebrities were often on hand, signing autographs and providing what was for most of us our only brush with fame.

When I was four, we went to one such event, and I turned my head from side to side so I wouldn’t miss anything. That’s when I spotted the blue car, magically and majestically turning around and around, paint and chrome gleaming. It had pride of place in the showroom window. As the salesman, brochures in hand and sporting a grin the size of the car’s grille, approached my parents, my mother’s grip loosened, and I pulled my hand from her grasp.

Freedom! I jumped on the turntable, much to the chagrin of my parents, and pressed my face and hands against the smooth steel of the fender. I could see myself in the shiny paint as well as I had ever seen myself in a mirror. My parents were mortified, but the salesman smiled indulgently and invited us all to sit inside the car and “really experience it, folks.”

I loved that car: my nose loved the “new car” smell; my fingers loved the soft smoothness of the fabric. The front seat even reclined in case you had to sleep in the car! My indulgent father let me sit on his lap in the driver’s seat as I gripped the steering wheel and pretended to drive. I felt as though I could stay there forever.

My parents, however, wanted to look at other cars and informed me it was time to go. I knew what I had to do – I wanted that car! – so I wrapped my entire body around the steering wheel and would not let go. My face turned red from crying; my parents’ faces turned even redder as more and more people gathered around to watch my father attempt to remove me with out injuring me.

The salesman, who had been assisting my father in his efforts to remove me, remarked that he never had a “customer” who showed such enthusiasm for a new car and told my father he would give him a good deal on the car, if he were interested.

Reprieve! My father disappeared into the office and my mother was left to watch me. I was left sitting in the driver’s seat!

When my Dad came out, both he and the salesman were smiling. The car was ours! And they were actually able to get me out of the car, once I was convinced of that.

The car was a Nash Rambler and we named her “Ol’ Betsy” after Daniel Boone’s rifle because, as in the popular song, we “could travel far and wide with Ol’ Betsy by our side.”

Ol' Betsy took us to the beach, to visit my grandparents, to church, to the store. Ol' Betsy took me, sick cat cradled in my arms, to the vet, and let me wipe my tears into her soft cloth upholstery when I returned with empty arms. My parents had many cars after Betsy but none that I remember with such clarity or with such love.

Go to Rewind the Fifties Home