Joan Crawford, eat your heart out!

Last Saturday evening I felt like one of those old Hollywood legends as the 1946 Packard Super Clipper Touring Sedan owned and chauffeured by my friend Scott, an avid collector of classic cars, rolled up to collect me with all of the eyes on Second Street trained on my house.

Its interior is so elegantly dressed in creamy white, refined Art Deco designed dashboard with original tube radio that has to warm up to play, and the blue grey wool luxury interior with Packard’s standard painted wood grain trim.

It transported me back in time to Sunset Boulevard in the old days, our fabulous new friend Calvin opening the door for the momentary diva to enter.

Like Norma Desmond in the great old black-and-white film by that name, I was ready for my close-up. I felt like royalty waving to the neighbors, never mind our destination was only a short drive next door to a dinner party.

It reminded me of my 1970 Mercedes Sedan named Gertrude. Mama and I cruised around town making many fond memories in that beauty. It was buttercream on the outside with a chocolate brown top, and the interior was all original with a vintage AM/FM push button radio, premium leather seating, and power windows.

Yes, we got all the attention that summer, even a few whistles and catcalls from adoring fans. Mama didn’t mind feeling famous for a minute, and neither did I.

Scott is often asked why he collects classic automobiles such as The Packard, better known as Ophelia; his white 1967 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham he calls Big Edie in honor of the movie “Grey Gardens;” and the red 1965 Impala SS Convertible. His answer: “All three of my cars feed my inner child, the one that dreamed and imagined what it was like not being me, but being instead a 1940s movie star, a Rat Pack-era mobster, or the hot guy cruising his muscle car up and down the Strip.”

It was Mark Twain who wrote: “Let us not be too particular; it is better to have old secondhand diamonds than none at all.”

I would even go the extra step and say that sometimes those secondhand diamonds have an allure the new ones just can’t match.

I ask: Where to next, driver?

 

David Creel is a Mississippi native and syndicated columnist. You may reach him at beautifulwithdavid.com.