Father’s Day memories of my Dad & his wheels

There is a story about my Dad that I dearly love.  I can’t remember who first told me this story, but it was repeated at his memorial service in 2005.

Hoyt Carroll was born in 1922, the first of eight children for Floyd and Nell Carroll.  By the 1930s, the family had moved from the rural Snow Hill area near Chattanooga, to the largely unpopulated Sand Mountain, Alabama community we now know as Bryant.

Like all poor families of that era, the Carrolls worked the fields.  Oldest son Hoyt led the way, but on those rare occasions when an automobile would chug by on the dusty road, he would stop what he was doing to watch that car, coming and going.  “Someday I’m going to make enough money to get me a car,” he’d say.   I’m sure that seemed like an impossible dream at the time.  But that was his goal, and he eventually got himself a car.

In fact, the running joke in our family for years, backed up by the truth, is that once he got a car, he couldn’t stop trading.  Back when the carmakers designed all new models each year, he would trade up for the latest model.  He was frugal and conservative in every other way, but he went through a lot of vehicles.  Sedans, station wagons, pickup trucks, motorcycles, boats, tractors and motor homes. There was even a bicycle built for two.  If it got from Point A to Point B with wheels and/or a motor, he wanted one.

When I was little, he would share his love of cars with me.  Each September, when the new models were announced, we would plant ourselves in front of the TV.  Chevrolet would always unveil their new models during the season opener of “Bonanza,” remember?  He was very proud that I could identify every make and model of that era, just by looking at pictures.

He might have been a little too anxious to get me behind the wheel.  Inexplicably, he got me a motorcycle when I was 12.  The reasoning behind that is fuzzy today, but my best guess is, some other boys near my age had one, and I probably begged for one too.  For the first month, I was King of The Road.  I was zooming up and down Highway 73, getting cockier by the day.

Then one evening I picked up one of my buddies (a no-no) and took him through Bryant on my Suzuki 100.  I learned that loose gravels and motorcycles do not mix.  We had a minor accident, just enough to scratch up that shiny orange bike, and give both of us a few scrapes and scratches.

The pain from my injuries would be nothing compared to what I feared Dad’s reaction would be.  Having a wreck, minor as it was, was bad enough.  But I wasn’t supposed to be hauling anyone around, at the ripe old age of 12.  Let’s just say he did the fatherly thing, and the Suzuki was grounded for an appropriate period of time.  He often told me the loose gravels probably saved my life, because I was getting too confident, long before I had any right to be.  As is so often the case, Father Knew Best.

A few years later, his love for cars came into play again, resulting in a choice I made that has been widely questioned ever since.  He got a good deal on a bright red 1965 Cadillac DeVille convertible, the most beautiful car I have seen, even to this day.  By this time, I was in my senior year of high school.  This car was about ten years old, but looked brand new.  The previous owner put only thirty thousand miles on it.  Dad thought this would be an ideal first car for me, since I had been borrowing my Mom’s car to go on dates, or to drive to school.

Believe it or not, I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”  He couldn’t believe it. “Son,” he’d say. “When I was your age, I couldn’t have dreamed of a car like this!”  But much like that motorcycle from the past, I’d look at that beautiful convertible, and picture it getting all banged up, either by me or someone else.  I figured it wouldn’t hold up well in a school parking lot, with other 17-year-olds who were no better at parking than I was.

Later the convertible became his “parade car,” which he often used during his time as a County Commissioner.  I talked him into a less flashy car for me, which of course soon got banged up, just as I predicted.

He thoroughly enjoyed the give-and-take of trading cars, making every effort to squeeze the best deal out of a car salesman until one side or the other would give in.

I miss my Dad on this Father’s Day, and every day.  I sure was lucky to have him in my life for so long, and yes, I hear his words coming out of my mouth when I advise my sons about cars and driving.  And even though he was a strong influence on me, there’s one area in which I did not inherit the Hoyt Carroll gene.

If he could see me today, with my 17-year-old car approaching the 210,000 mile mark, he’d say, “Son, don’t you need a new car?”