The decline of Chrysler and the GOP

My Dad drove a Chrysler whenever he could. He was also a Republican — and damned proud of it — back when it wasn't cool to be a Republican in Texas.

Those two character traits have left me with a certain cognitive dissonance. How would he have reacted to what's going on right now? Two of his life's most important — possibly even iconic — brands are on the brink of oblivion.

Dad didn't always drive a Chrysler product, and he wasn't a straight-ticket Republican, either. But he learned about Chryslers and Republicans at his parent's kitchen table. Chrysler New Yorkers and Pylmouth Furys (and, in later years, even the occasional Colt, Neon, or, in Dad's case, Sebrings) dominated the driveways of our family gatherings.

That's not to say there wasn't the occasional Ford or Chevy around — I drove Volkswagens of various stripes throughout most of my formative years — but, in my family, there was always something magical and desirable about Chryslers.

Maybe it was the pushbutton transmission, or the futuristic look, imbued with the promise of finned rocket ships and personal jet packs and blasters, only a 1950s Chrysler could attain.

If we thought about it at all (I can't speak for my cousins but, truthfully, my brothers and I didn't think about it, not very often) we all thought Chryslers were cool and all those other cars were what you drove if you couldn't drive a Chrysler.

No, Mr. Buick, we'd really rather drive a Chrysler, thank you very much.

Politically, well, Dad felt betrayed by Richard Nixon. He supported the man to the bitter end. I don't know how his brothers regarded Nixon but it would not surprise me if they were solid Nixon Republicans because, in 1969 — which is where my brain goes when I consider my Dad's politics — everyone over 30 supported Nixon, right? Right?

To be fair, I'm not precisely sure my Uncle David completely supported Nixon. His son, Jon, is decidedly left-of-center — you might even call him militantly liberal — and they say the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. But the rest of the family ... well, they were, and still are, pretty conservative.

In fact, Dad's oldest brother's family attained the Bush campaign rank of Pioneer — or was it Ranger? Jon's sisters — two of 'em, anyway — tend to hold right-of-center opinions and my younger brother remains a proud ditto-head to this day. Staunchly conservative, all of 'em.

Dad was proud to be a Republican. He was as proud to represent Republicans from Bell County to the state convention, back when there were maybe 125 Republicans in Texas, as he was of his 1969 Plymouth Fury III powered by the fabled 457 Police Interceptor, the one my Mom called an old lady car because it was metallic blue and only old ladies drove cars that color.

Still, Ronald Reagan knocked the luster of the Republican shine for Dad when Reagan co-opted social conservatives in order to assure the defeat of Jimmy Carter. For the first time in his life, Dad broke with the Party. He couldn't bring himself to vote for a Democrat, despite the fact that he sorta liked Carter, a fellow preacher, so he voted for John Anderson.

Further, Dad was anything but sold on Bush II's so-called compassionate conservatism and preemptive war, though you will find few who hurt more for the victims of 9/11 or who was more of a patriot. Still, as a scholar of the Establishment Clause, Dad was quite disturbed when everyone sang patriotic songs in church the Sunday following 9/11. And he was the preacher; he selected those hymns.

That, combined with his up-close-and-personal experience with America's medical care delivery system, soured him on Republicans and prompted him to look hard at nationalized health care. In fact, before he died, Dad said if he had to be pigeon-holed, he would say he was a Conservative Socialist, whatever that is.

Today, only 21 percent of Americans describe themselves as Republicans and the venerable Chrysler Motor Company hangs by a slender, frayed thread. The car company might not last the summer and, unless some prophetic leader emerges soon to lead it from the wilderness, the GOP may disappear, at least as a national party, by the next presidential election.

I can't help but think that Dad would be very put out with the Republican's purge of political purity and profoundly disappointed with the implosion of a once-proud US manufacturer.

And, even though I never cared for Chryslers (ironically, I drive a Buick) and seldom ever vote Republican, I, too, am saddened.

(Cross-posted at http://open.salon.com/blog/richard2456)

The Ragged Edge: Despite absence, teaching continues

Note: This column was published in February 3, 2005 in the Cameron Herald.

One of my earliest clear memories of my father is of the time I decided, in first grade, that I didn't need to go to school.

I walked to school every morning - I know I'm dating myself when I say that I grew up in a time when a first-grader could safely walk to school but there it is - and just decided to stop and play behind the railroad tracks that ran between our house and the school. That's where Dad found me.

He was probably frustrated with his first-born and likely scared to death but I don't remember him being too angry or upset. We spent the rest of the day at his office where I played with the memo graph machine (one of my favorite pieces of old office equipment) and generally made a nuisance of myself trying to help him put out the church bulletin.

I don't know how I came to the erroneous conclusion that I didn't need to go to school. Skipping school was not really an option for other first-graders but I don't remember much cognitive dissonance over the event. Since I wasn't really a model student but was given to daydreaming and inattention to my schoolwork, I suspect I avoided school that morning out of a dread about my grades. In fact, I remember a very serious conversation with Mrs. Sessions, my principal, after that. She attended the church where my Dad preached and I think lived down the street from us. She was a nice woman but that visit was scary and I stopped having trouble with my grades.

But while that is the only clear memory of Mrs. Sessions, it is one of many I have of my father. Like how he tried to keep 20 or 30-cents in his pockets on Sunday mornings.

After church services were over, Dad waited in the Narthex to speak with members of the congregation as they exited. My brothers and I always showed up for money for the soda machine. We were sorely agitated those Sunday mornings when he forgot. I know he was often annoyed with us because we could be pretty bratty.

We drank Grape Nehi. Well, sometimes my younger brother would drink Orange Nehi but he was a nonconformist. I'd drink Orange only if the machine was out of Grape. Later, that particular brother rooted for the Redskins and the Vikings while the rest of us rooted for the Cowboys. I think he did it on purpose. He's still sort of contrary that way.

Dad was usually pretty tolerant of our mischief, until we got in the car. He tried very hard to be patient with us but he had three sons, four years apart and he and Mom liked to Go Places. Like Harlingen and Odessa and Kingsville and Shreveport and St. Louis.

We didn't make it very easy for him and he occasionally lost his cool when we sat in the back seat and taunted each other mile after mile after mile (Are we there yet? Stop touching me!).

I've been thinking about my Dad for the last couple of weeks. I now realize that I should have paid more attention to my memories of him. I'd have been a lot better prepared for my own children. As it is, I've recalled these memories a bit late. My oldest children already think they are adult and that teenage girl is generally hopeless (alas, she already loves puns).

But, it demonstrates that your parents have a lot to teach you, even when they re no longer around.

Monday, Jan. 31 was the second anniversary of his death. Last Friday, I took a detour coming home from Sealy so I could visit his grave in that little Czech cemetery near Dime Box. It's kind of odd - but not at all wrong - to see his strong Saxon name mixed in with the Kovars and the Mareks and the Hrnicrs. He spent nearly 20 years ministering to some of those people and that's where he wanted us to bury him so we did.

It's a pretty site, on the top of a low hill near the church. Even when the winter leaches all colors but brown out of the landscape, there's a beauty to that hillside.

He still has much to teach me, even though he's gone.

I miss him.