Photo courtesy Stephen Klein.
[Editor’s note: This “Reminiscing” story, edited by Richard Lentinello, comes to us from Hemmings Classic Car reader Stephen Klein of Forest Hills, New York.]
My life has evolved around cars; I’ve always been hooked on the things. I was a city kid, born in 1943 in the Bronx, New York. My earliest recollections are of my father’s Dodge. It was probably a 1947 or ’48, in some unassuming postwar color like grey or dark blue. The interior was mohair and, like a lot of cars of the day, it smelled like a combination of old lady and ashtray. My dad’s only vice was El Producto Bouquet cigars at two for a quarter. His car’s interior, along with his winter coats, smelled really awful when wet. I enjoyed riding around in the front of the Dodge and looking at the dash that was painted metal but looked pretty much like wood. I especially liked to hold on to the hand hoops in the back that hung down near the rear seat, though they were quite a reach away for me.