A few weeks ago, while walking the dog around the neighborhood, I ran into an older gentleman on his morning constitutional, who was even more gabby and full of stories than I was. He said his name was Neil, and that he’d lived here his whole life, and was older than dirt. He was happy to yack about just about anything.
So, I rode my bike over to his place the other day, and in the driveway, awaited the surprise that Neil had hinted at. It was a ’41 Studebaker handed down to him by his dad, and in pristine condition.
Here’s (a little of) what Neil had to say.
Me: Did you bring this out of the garage just to show me?
Neil: Oh, I didn’t just bring it out. We’re going out for a spin, man.
A past member of various car clubs, like Cruisin’ North, Neil has classic cars running through his blood.
Me: Well, then let’s ride. I’ve only got about two hours.
Neil: Well shit. We’re gonna need more like three days!
We head out of his driveway, and Neil immediately shows off, leaving some rubber behind on the road.
Me: Where and when were you born, Neil?
Neil: I was born in Petaluma, in 1940. Feb. 28, 1940. I missed Leap Day by a half hour! I’m 81. A year older than this car. Raised in Sebastopol. I never left. My uncle, my dad’s brother, he went to 115 (years). I’m going to 140!
Me: Which school did you go to?
Neil: I went to all of them. Parkside, and then Analy, class of ’59. That football team was undefeated! I played sax and clarinet in the band. Our house was 342 S. Main Street. Later we moved to Bodega Highway near the fire station, and then Belmont Terrace, behind Lucky’s.
We used to get into all sorts of trouble. Once we threw stones at the milkman. I had to sleep outside for three nights after that.
My dad owned Seaside Service Station on S. Main. It’s where the VW garage is now, just across from our old house.
Me: So, Neil. Where are we headed?
Neil: That auto parts store at the entrance to town (Napa Auto Parts). I want to show you a picture that’s up on the wall there.
Me: Have you ever been to The Barlow?
Neil: You mean the apple processing place. Sure.
Me: No, I mean the new shopping and drinking district named after that place.
Neil: Nope. Haven’t been. Maybe one day. I think it’s a bunch of crap.
We pass through the intersection of Highway 12 by Mimi’s, and turn right onto Depot Street, and go down the road a short ways.
Neil: See that building with the big red doors (The Bohemian Stoneworks)? That used to be my grandfather’s livery. I’ll show you the picture.
We roll into Napa Auto Parts parking lot, and the first guy to see Neil and his car calls out, “Hey Studie!”
Neil: Do I know you?
Stranger: I don’t think so. But I’ve been here forever. My folks used to own one of the apple processing places.
Neil: Well, I’ve been here longer! (Neil isn’t picking a fight, but something tells me he wouldn’t mind.)
We go inside and find a print up on the south wall, one of ten, of the J. F. Miller blacksmith shop and livery, where the Stoneworks shop is now. Neil is delighted that the picture, with his stout grandfather proudly standing beside the big doors, is still hanging there.
Neil: On my mother’s side, I’ve got cousins up and down Peterson Road south of town. They were Peoples. Miller married into the Peoples family.
In our family we were two sisters, and me. One sister died, and the other doesn’t really talk to me. She’s in Petaluma.
Me: I’m sorry. That’s sad.
Neil: Well, that’s the way life is sometimes.
We walked over to King Falafel for a bite to eat, and a quiet place to sit and chat.
Me: Have you ever had a falafel?
Neil: What’s that?
Me: Neil, how did you make a living?
Neil: Drive truck. Mostly hauling cement powder for Shamrock in Petaluma. I’d drive the stuff anyplace in the state. I drove for 40 years all together.
Me: Did you ever crash?
Neil: Nope. Well, once. But it wasn’t my fault, and nobody got hurt. It was in San Francisco, and I was running empty on 19th Avenue and the road was slick from rain. Some idiot pulled out in front of me.
Me: Where did you meet your wife?
Neil: Through friends. She’s from Montana.
Me: Where is your family from?
Neil: From here.
Me: No, I mean before that.
Neil: From here. Somebody came over on the Mayflower. I don’t know when they got out here. A long time ago.
The hummus and pita I’ve ordered gets delivered to the table.
Me: You want to try some of this hummus?
Neil: The what? Looks like a soft taco. I like Taco Bell and Burger King. They’re both in my calorie counter book. I’ve gotta stick to that. I was 290 once. I’m down to 197 now, and I’m not done yet.
Me: Do you belong to a church?
Neil: My mom was a Congregationalist, and my dad was Seventh Day Adventist, but I don’t belong anywhere … My dad once sent me to a dentist from his church. When the dentist found out that I didn’t go to his church, he refused to treat me. That was enough for me.
I always wanted to be a truck driver. Even as a kid.
I wear a Mack truck belt buckle, but that’s the only thing they make that’s good. Belt buckles. The Freightliner rides like you’re on feathers. Kenworth is good too. Not the Macks. Maybe Mack cement mixers. Nothing else.
I still get up every morning ready to go to work. It’s just in my blood.
Me: So as an old timer around here, how do you feel about the changes in Sebastopol these last few years?
Neil: We need a bypass road. Way too much traffic.
Did you ever know Bill Roventini? He used to run this town. I knew him from high school. He played accordion and was a barber. Later, he was the mayor here. He did a lot of good around here … I’ve lost a lot of classmates.
Me: Where do you get your news from, Neil?
Neil: I don’t.
Me: Not the paper?
Neil: Just to see when the car races are, and my wife checks for when the Giants are playing.
Me: Can you remember the first person you voted for for president?
Neil: Oh, I don’t know. I voted for whomever my family was voting for. The Bushes were alright … I’m not a Trumper. Can’t figure out how he got in. He’s nuts. But I’ve got neighbors who are Trumpers, and they aren’t vaccinated. I don’t talk to those people anymore. That’s just crazy.
We walk back to the car, past Neil’s grandfather’s livery. Someone is standing by the Studebaker, admiring it. We climb in (no seat belts in these old classics) and Neil pulls out onto Highway 12. Right as we pass Mimi’s he floors it, making the wheels screech, and Neil’s a happy man. Older than dirt, and at 81, still burning out on Main Street.
