My gal’s a cor-or-ker,
she’s a New Yor-or-ker,
I buy her everything to keep her in style.
She drives a Buick Six,
I ride a mule that kicks,
Yes, boys, that’s where my money goes.
Up too early this morning. After falling to sleep sitting up at six-thirty, sent off to bed at seven-thirty, and zonked until two-fifteen. Up, black coffee, small glass of milk and thought to blog but wandered off online reading cover to cover the Buick full-line catalogue for 1923. In my day Buicks were all straight eights, but the brochure would have been the age of the song we sang some mornings at Cove School. “My gal’s a corker,” one of my favorites because of the Buick verse.
A 1923 Buick Six. Among the marketing boasts, a 124 inch wheelbase throughout the Buick Six line,
and a tough frame of selected oak and ash, in which carriage bolts have replaced the wood screws commonly used. The trunk and trunk rack are standard.
The four-cylinder touring car for 1923 has a 109 inch wheelbase.
Automobile windows in those days were plate glass. Which, I remember mama saying, was why my grandfather stuck to open cars, because of the record of crashes in which people were stabbed and mutilated horribly on huge glass shards. My recollection from other reading is that safety glass wasn’t the industry standard until 1925.
Finishing the Buick brochure, I browsed online for liver pâté and braunschweiger until realizing I was asleep in the chair. Pay homage to Father Nature to prevent nightmares, then back to bed and sleep from 4:15 until after seven o’clock -- except for the dreams, not a bad night and night’s sleep.
Late night, predawn dreams are not good. In one dream my mother from as I remember her thirty or forty years ago walked into the room and when I broke into sobs the dream wakened me. Only time that has happened, but I reckon we never quite get over some losses, even the most natural ones. Back to sleep and caught up in a dream in which my two high school girlfriends were roommates, and Linda, though not jealous, dismissing the other girl as too flirty, grabbing my arm and steering us out the door. My gal is a cor-or-ker. Dream also a waker-upper and arise for Father Nature and coffee. I hesitate to tell these things, but what the hell, I’m eighty years old.
So foggy this morning that Shell Island and even Davis Point are invisible. A few yards offshore in the Bay seven floors down, two pelicans floating, a solid brown one and one with a white head, could be a baby? The large flocks of pelicans disappeared suddenly one morning a couple weeks ago, gone, migrated. I wonder where they winter?
Last night’s sunset.
Thos+ in +Time+