The other day, while spending time at the garage, waiting for a friend’s truck to be repaired, memories of ghosts of vehicles past and the hours spent in a mechanic’s waiting room came drifting into my mind. The earliest experience with the smells of Valvoline and transmission fluid came at an early age, when I accompanied my father to the ONLY MECHANIC YOU CAN TRUST, in his words, Toscani’s on Lanza Avenue in my hometown of Garfield NJ.
My father did minor repairs and routine matters like changing the oil and sparkplugs himself, but anything beyond his abilities was entrusted to Frank Toscani. Toscani’s was a small, dark, greasy, two-bay shop, with an office the size of a closet, and a restroom best not visited by females. Young apprentices held on Frank’s every word, and only the more mundane tasks were turned over to them. Anything demanding precision and close attention was Frank’s purview, and his alone.
My father’s cars were well maintained, somewhere between three to five years old when he bought them, and almost always Chevys. I remember a mint green 1950 “bullet-back” four-door sedan, sleek and futuristic looking at the time. It had a push button radio and rode like a tank. The next Chevy was a 1954 two-tone Bel-Air, turquoise and white, again a four-door sedan. This was the vehicle that took us on the best family vacation ever, a one week trip to the Catskill Mountains in New York state, with stops at Wild West City, Fort William Henry, The North Pole, and, of course, the Catskill Game Farm.
Prior to any long trip, Daddy took the Chevy in to Toscani’s for a tune-up and oil change. The only times I recall having car trouble on a trip was the occasional flat tire. Luckily, the spare was always ready and, once I was old enough, I was allowed to help with the tire jack.
My first car was a 1962 Ford Falcon, turquoise in color, another four-door sedan. It was bought new and, since I was commuting to college and living at home, was in place of what other girls my age might be spending on dormitory fees. It was an automatic, a luxury my father never had allowed himself, but which made my early driving experiences on the crowded highways of New Jersey much safer for all around me.
The Falcon was maintained by my father and I and, when necessary, visited Toscani’s shop from time to time. The former apprentices were now farther up the food chain, but Frank was still in control, although his oldest son was now a master mechanic, taking over more of the duties and attempting to modernize the shop and office.
The Falcon was a great little car, with a manual choke that allowed me to keep the idle to a crawl when needed on icy winter roads. Why I was persuaded to trade it for the worst car I ever owned, a two-door 1968 Chevy Chevelle, is beyond me to this day. My boyfriend at the time owned a similar model and raved about it. I guess I was influenced by his opinions, but I soon replaced not only the car, but the boyfriend as well.
My move to Vermont in 1971 necessitated a snow and ice-worthy vehicle, something the Chevelle was not. I traded it for a red 1970 four door Saab, my first experience with foreign cars, front-wheel drive and rack-and-pinion steering. This was a great car, sturdy and safe and as sure-footed on ice and snow as a Sherpa guide. It was a reliable vehicle and didn’t require much in the way of maintenance, but when it did, I never got out A&B Motors in Woodstock VT for less than $400. Its end came when the transmission blew and repair costs exceeded the price of a replacement vehicle, which was to be another little red car, a Fiat this time.
After the Fiat came a succession of small front wheel drive cars of various makes, a few AMC Eagles, and, at last, a four wheel drive Isuzu Trooper II, a marvelous vehicle for snow, ice, climbing hills, and NEVER, EVER getting stuck. I did spin a 360 once on Route 12 heading home from Woodstock to Bethel after a late night Parent’s Night at school, landing in a snowbank next to the mailboxes in front of the Prosper Community Building. As always happens in Vermont, the car behind me stopped, the driver got out his come-along, hitched me out of the snowbank, wouldn’t take any money, and wished me a safe trip home.
Several four wheel drives later, including a Bronco II and a neat little Mazda pickup, found me in Florida, where a succession of Hyundai Elantras have been my vehicle of choice. I’ve owned four of them now, trading not because of problems, but mileage and the desire for better fuel efficiency. The waiting room at Jenkins Hyundai in Leesburg is modern, clean and more comfortable than my living room, with a big screen TV, computer access, coffee and donuts on demand, and current magazines. The service bays are spotless, and Luke Platt, my favorite service manager, always takes good care of me and my current vehicle, a red 4-door Elantra.
It’s a far cry from Toscani’s, and my father would probably look askance at the white-shirted technicians and their computers. On the other hand, the garage at which my friend’s twenty year old pickup was repaired, Shaffer’s in Eustis, would have been right up his alley, from the hard talking heart-of-gold female owner to the old coffeepot in the corner, and the two sleepy bassett hounds lounging in the office. I wonder if he would tell me that they are the ONLY MECHANICS YOU CAN TRUST.