Jew Eat Yet?

Road Trip!

We finally returned to Los Angeles last night. Whew, we were gone for so long I was relieved to see that California hadn’t snapped off into the Pacific during our absence. It’s great to be home but we had an incredibly fun time on our August travels. During the last five days of our trip we hit the open road in our beautiful 2010 GMC Acadia (courtesy, once again, of the fabulous folks at General Motors). Similar in many ways to the Buick Enclave we drove last June, the Acadia has won many awards for its elegant design and smooth drive, including one of the Ten Best Engines, a 2010 Consumer Digest Best Buy citation, and a MotorWeek Drivers' Choice Award for Best Crossover Utility Vehicle.

Here is a map of our crazy somewhat circular route. Our ultimate goal was to visit our friends Tom and Lisa in Durham, North Carolina, with a few fun stops there and back. We drove a whopping 2,000 miles during our trip and believe me, if I were to attempt to go that far again, I wouldn’t do it in so short a time period. Some of those 10-hour driving days were a bit grueling.

Still, there ain’t nothing like seeing the changing landscapes of our beautiful country from the ground. I am in awe of America's diverse geography and I think it’s so important to visit new places and meet people who live at different rhythms than the people we see in our personal ghettos every day.

Not surprisingly, several of our pit stops were organized around food. Our first lunch stop occurred outside of Indianapolis where we gorged on the quality spread at the famous Gray Brothers Cafeteria. I’m certainly not used to cafeterias that serve such excellent cuisine and I’m not sure how they manage to keep their crazy volumes of grub so high quality.

Knowing we may never hit these parts again, I’m afraid we over-indulged a bit. This is just MY lunch. Gulp. The fried chicken was exquisite as were all the sides. And the butterscotch pie? Oy. Retro and delicious!

We slogged on through southern Indiana and across the whole state of Kentucky and by nightfall reached our cozy B&B in stunning Charleston, West Virginia, just a block from the gold-domed state capitol. I had not realized that until the Civil War, the counties that now make up West Virginia were part of Virginia proper. After Virginia seceded from the union, these counties that were loyal to the U.S. started the process that would eventually lead to the creation of the state of West Virginia.

We stayed at the Brass Pineapple, a gorgeous 1907 Victorian mansion loaded with stained and leaded glass, Italian tile, and magnificent oak paneling. Oh, what a beautiful, peaceful place to crash for the night.

The next day we loaded back into the Acadia and continued our eastward trek. We stopped for lunch in Winston-Salem, the North Carolina city that for years was dominated by the tobacco industry. In 1940, 60 percent of the residents worked for the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company. Even though Winston-Salem is 200 miles inland, the Reynolds Company imported so much French cigarette paper and Turkish tobacco that the city was designated by the federal government as an official port of entry for the United States.

We had one of our best meals of the trip at a restaurant in downtown Winston-Salem called Sweet Potatoes. From the perfect fried green tomatoes and okra to the country ham sandwiches on enormous sweet potato biscuits (forgive me, kosher relatives!), this place had the best Southern food I’d ever tasted. For dessert we had luscious banana pudding and a crazy concoction of bread pudding made out of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. (Krispy Kreme opened its first shop in Winston-Salem in 1937.) Oy, someone call the cholesterol police!

We made it to Durham by mid-afternoon and had a warm reunion with our friends, Tom and Lisa, who moved to North Carolina from L.A. two years ago. They showed us around the town (also put on the map by the tobacco industry) including the stately gardens of Duke University. Because of the heavy presence of academia in Durham, there are probably more PhDs per square foot than in most large cities. Walking around Duke, you could just feel the advanced degrees emanating from the smart-looking pedestrians.

We had such fun with Tom and Lisa and Charlie competed for Tom’s attention with their dog Bitty. Here they are, each laying claim to one of Tom’s legs. Tom is a gifted actor who has appeared in many films and TV shows (he was one of Al Bundy’s pals on “Married…with Children” and played the sleazy lawyer in Clint Eastwood’s “Million Dollar Baby”) and has been in dozens of wonderful stage productions. We were excited to hear that he will be in a local production next spring and hope to make it back to Durham. Lisa showed us the beautiful synagogue where she works. Though not Jewish herself, she seems to attract interesting Jews wherever she goes—even in North Carolina! On the other hand, Jews have a long history in the region. Before Ellis Island, many immigrant Jews came to the country through shipping ports in the South.

While in Durham, Charlie and I headed over to nearby Chapel Hill to visit blogger extraordinaire, Annie Gottlieb, and her husband Jacques. Annie is the sister of fellow blogger David Gottlieb and I've felt like an honorary sibling of the Chicago Gottlieb clan ever since I "met" them five years ago.

As Annie wrote on her blog just after the visit, Charlie and Jacques felt a special kinship. "Jacques and Charlie Miller have been through more between the two of them than the rest of us put together...They're both miracles—Jacques who survived gangrene and boxed and did road work on his scarred legs; Charlie who came through brain bleeds and intestinal resection and just being born one and a quarter pounds, and claps his hands, laughs, and says 'Da-da' and 'Ca'—cat—not known before today to be in his vocabulary."

Indeed, Charlie was fascinated by Annie and Jacques' three cats, especially this gigantic feline who Annie got from a junkie in Central Park 14 years ago (this woman is full of fascinating stories!). It was great to see my blogging sister again!

The next morning, after our only day with no driving, we reluctantly said good-bye to our friends and headed north into the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Long-time readers of this blog should know where I was headed. How could I possibly be in this part of the country without visiting the home of my fantasy family from childhood—the Waltons! The fictional family was created by writer Earl Hamner (John-Boy), and though the show was shot in Los Angeles, Hamner’s former school in his home town of Schuyler, Virginia, now houses the Walton’s Mountain Museum, a must-see for Waltons fanatics like me.

I demanded that we play the Walton’s theme song over and over as we headed into the mountains. “It’s starting to look like Burbank,” I said after a few hours, “we must be getting close!” I have no idea if any of the exteriors on the show were shot in Schuyler but it all looked so familiar as we drove into Earl Hamner’s home town.

As I looked at the exhibits in the museum, I was amazed at how closely the actors on “The Waltons” resembled Hamner’s actual siblings. We watched a documentary about the series that included visits by the actors to the museum (Kami Kotler, the actress who played Elizabeth Walton, even moved to the area for several years and taught school). I remembered the letters I received as a kid from Ben (Eric Scott) and Mary Ellen (Judy Norton) and, of course, I had strong feelings for Mama Walton (Patricia Neal in the first Waltons movie and then Michael Learned in the series).

As Charlie spent most of his time flirting with a group of wheelchair-bound senior citizens in the former gymnasium of the school, I slowly walked through perfect recreations of John-Boy’s bedroom and the family’s famous living room and kitchen.

When Kendall and Leah finally pulled me out of the museum, I walked with Charlie a block down the hill and visited Earl Hamner’s childhood home (which looked very much like the TV version). There seemed to be some kind of rivalry between the folks at the museum and the guy who gave tours of Hamner’s home. Ah well, I guess such squabbles have always been common in closed-knit rural communities! Can’t we all just share some of the Baldwin sisters’ infamous “recipe” and get along?

We continued our trek through the Blue Ridge Mountains and experienced some of the most beautiful and terrifying thunderstorms I’ve ever driven through. Thank God for our solid rock of a car—no matter what we drove on or through, the Acadia gave us a smooth, safe ride. Once we hit Pennsylvania we turned to the west and began our crawl back to Chicago.

That night we stayed at one of the most amazing places I’ve ever slept in. The Oak Noggin Bed and Breakfast, about half an hour south of Pittsburgh, was constructed out of two local 18th century log cabins that have been put together and outfitted with a dizzying array of Early American antiques and period touches including tongue-and-groove flooring, an enormous stone hearth, wood-burning fireplaces, an oversized clawfoot bathtub, and a luxurious rope bed in the master bedroom. We had the whole log cabin to ourselves and woke up feeling like we were pioneers (with air conditioning). Seriously, if you are ever in the Pittsburgh area, you have to treat yourself to a night or two in this unique home. After a yummy breakfast served to us in our antique kitchen, we got back into the car for our final day of driving.

It was probably somewhere in Ohio, around our 1,500th mile that our first major dose of travel fatigue set in. True, we had all the comforts of our trusty GMC Acadia, including the XM satellite radio that for the vast majority of the trip was tuned to the “On Broadway” station (the only station the three of us could agree on!) but after endless hours of showtunes, we were all ready to disavow our love of musical theatre and switch to anything else, even if we had to listen to Glenn Beck. (Well, maybe not.) Before we left, in my zeal to experience the best cuisine the road had to offer, I made the misguided decision to detour slightly from our route back to Chicago and stop at the famous Zingerman’s Deli in Ann Arbor, Michigan. With our nerves on edge, and Charlie finally beginning to lose it strapped into his car seat for hours on end, the extra hour or so this added to our trip was not my best idea.

Not to fault Zingerman’s, though. I did have the best Reuben sandwich I’ve ever tasted, and we bought some amazing Zzang Bars that we enjoyed on the plane ride home.

Finally, just after sunset, we returned to my home town and inched our way on the gridlocked highway back to the welcoming arms of the Tweedy family. We had one last family night with the gang where we witnessed the musical talents of not only Jeff and Spencer, but also Sue and Sammy. As musical families go, I think they give the Von Trapps a run for their money. Sue kept making Jeff play Herman’s Hermits tunes (her own tween obsession) and I laughed as Jeff struggled to play songs such as “Mrs. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter” and “There’s a Kind of Hush” on his guitar. I wondered if at that moment, somewhere in Sussex, maybe Keith Richards’ wife was making him play “Monkees” songs.

I woke up yesterday to see Charlie learning some guitar moves from Uncle Jeff. We were soon honored with a visit from Connie Burke, our wonderful patron saint of General Motors, who spent several hours with the family.

Connie and Charlie have had a “thing” going on ever since they first met last June. It’s a true love match and makes me wonder if GM’s next big car will be called "The Cougar!"

Finally, it was time to drive our Acadia to O’Hare and head home. Can't wait until next year!

[Photos of cloudy sky and Chicago Skyway courtesy of Leah Miller.]

Charlie's Chicago

 

This is Charlie’s second trip to my hometown and it’s fun to see the city through his eyes. Even though his sister Leah was born in Los Angeles and can equally claim Paris as her birthright, she feels such an affinity for this town that she considers herself a Chicagoan at heart. I’m guessing Charlie will feel the same way, he seems very much at home in this amazing city.

Some people believe that all time is simultaneous and I understand what they mean every time I visit Chicago. I’ll look out at some building, street, or house, and register how it looks in physical space today while also seeing with utter clarity what it looked like during my childhood. This was especially true yesterday when I was wandering downtown. I had a dentist appointment to finish some work that my lifelong Chicago dentist (and family friend) was doing to save a tooth that my L.A. dentist said had to go. Just going up in the elevator of the Garland Building on South Wabash put me into a time warp. My first visit to this office took place when John F. Kennedy was President. My patient file is so big it looks like it came out of the Freedom of Information Act. My dentist is about to turn 80 but shows no signs of slowing down. While I was in the office he received several calls from other dentists and oral surgeons asking for advice on their patients.

As he was drilling, I gazed out the 21st story window and had a perfect view of my grandfather’s old building that housed the flagship store of the Karoll’s Red Hanger Shops. Now the pristine Burnham Hotel, the landmark building has been scrubbed clean of the 100 years dirt that encased its exterior back in my grandfather’s day. When I squinted my eyes, I could see the trendy hotel transform back into its previous existence, the sparkling terra cotta dulled behind multiple layers of soot and grime and flickering neon signs advertising fortune tellers and brassiere manufacturers replacing the fancy curtained windows.

Leaving the dentist’s office, I could see my mother waiting for me in our usual meeting spot, under the huge clock outside of Marshall Field’s (now Macy’s). Looking down State Street, some mammoth new construction disappeared and was replaced by the imposing Roosevelt Theatre, one of the many demolished movie palaces in downtown Chicago.

Everything I look at during this trip seems to have more going on than its current identity. It’s as if my entire field of vision is double-exposed. Here are some sights from present-day Chicago (yes, most involve food—are you surprised?):

Charlie and Leah get their bearings upon our arrival at O’Hare.

 

Charlie goes to see Zaid and Grandma Marilyn. He visits the bedroom where his dad grew up. Daddy's anti-Vietnam War and Humphrey/Shriver bumper stickers are still stuck to the back of the door.

 

Aunt Susie can’t keep her hands off of Charlie. He thinks she’s a laugh riot.

 

Uncle Jeff returns from the first and very successful Wilco-curated arts festival, Solid Sound, in Massachusetts. We all want to attend next year.

 

Charlie’s first visit to Superdawg is a resounding success.

 

“Just say no to L.A. hot dogs,” Charlie cheerfully intones.

 

Leah feels empowered after indulging in this Chicago delicacy.

 

Charlie loves cuddling with his cousin Spencer, just back from summer camp.

 

Here is Sammy Tweedy in a blanket made out of actual dog hair.

 

Charlie prepares to dig into the Jewish delicacies at Manny’s Deli.

 

The cashier at Manny’s offers to forgive our large bill if we hand over Charlie for a week. We’ve eaten so much food that we briefly consider the offer.

 

Charlie contemplates the lethal cinnamon rolls at Ann Sather’s, a local Swedish favorite.

The Millers gleefully take possession of the gleaming GMC Acadia (courtesy of General Motors) that will be their wheels for next week’s driving trip to North Carolina.

 

Much more to come from the Windy City!

My Other Mother, Patricia Neal

 

I woke up at two this morning, and after tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, I finally accepted that I just wasn't going to fall back asleep. And how could I? I soon discovered that my mother, Oscar-winning actress Patricia Neal, had died a few hours earlier at the age of 84. Okay, fine. Patricia Neal was NOT my mother—but for a turbulent period in the early 1970s, I wanted to believe that I was the long-lost child of Neal and her husband, writer Roald Dahl. 

In 1971, my parents' marriage was deteriorating into full crash and burn. Ugly, screaming fights became the norm. My poor young parents were so caught up in the pain of their imploding marriage that they weren't able to reign in their emotions. My brother and sister had their own ways of coping, but as I wrote in 2005, my escape came via my faithful friend, the small black-and-white television perched on my bedroom dresser. The more my parents fought, the more I raised the volume on the fantasy family I could pretend was mine.

Long before I was familiar with Patricia Neal's brilliant work in films, I was transfixed by her performance as Olivia Walton in “The Homecoming,” the original movie about the Walton family of Virginia that spawned the TV series. All of the "real" Walton kids were present in the movie, but Miss Michael Learned had not yet donned Olivia Walton’s apron. The part of the mother was played by a stoic but loving Patricia Neal, the real-life wife of author Roald Dahl.

At the time, my two favorite books were Dahl’s “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” and “James and the Giant Peach.” At first glance they seemed to be fun, colorful children’s stories, but the books were actually dark, macabre studies of human fallibility. While Charlie and James exhibited a carefree innocence that belied their bleak, poverty-stricken lives, they were surrounded by a coterie of unsavory, mean-spirited, and even sadistic characters. I don’t think any so-called children’s author in history understood the dark side of childhood as well as Roald Dahl. I had never thought of writing to a famous person before, but that spring, holed up alone in my room with my books and portable TV, I longed to communicate with the creator of these sinister tales.

The few words that Roald Dahl wrote back to me on a postcard from Norway are implanted in my brain and I can recite them without taking a breath: “My dear Danny—Your splendid letter has followed me here. Thank you so much for writing. With love from Roald Dahl.” I used to study the Rand McNally globe in my bedroom and imagine the journey my splendid letter took as it traveled from Dahl’s estate in Buckinghamshire, England all the way to his vacation resort in Spitsbergen, Norway. And there, at his side, possibly reading my letter over her dear husband’s shoulder and wiping tears from her eyes at the poignancy of my words, was the original Olivia Walton, Patricia Neal.

 

Dahl and Neal perfectly filled the role of replacement parents. I gobbled up the story of Patricia Neal’s debilitating strokes—she suffered three aneurysms on February 17, 1965. Newspapers around the world blared the headline: “Film Actress Patricia Neal Dies from Stroke at 39.” The year before Neal had won a Best Actress Oscar for her magnificent performance as Alma, the earthy housekeeper in “Hud.” No one expected her to survive the strokes or the three-week coma that followed. When she finally emerged, the pregnant actress was paralyzed on her right side and unable to speak or understand conversations. It was her husband Roald Dahl who was largely credited for bringing his wife back to life through sheer stubbornness, love, and his tireless work helping to create a new kind of shunt that would drain the cerebrospinal fluid from his wife's damaged brain. Patricia Neal was obviously as stubborn as her husband, and defied all of the doctors’ prognoses. “We Tennessee hillbillies don’t conk out that easy,” she later said. What an incredible love story, I thought. Why were the Dahls able to triumph through adversity while my own family collapsed like a house of cards?

Shortly after getting the postcard from Roald Dahl, I went to see the just-opened movie “Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” I reveled in the dismal depictions of childhood dysfunction. Whether it was the gluttony of Augustus Gloop, the spoiled excess of Veruca Salt, the nasty gum-chewing habits of Violet Beauregard, or the brain-killing media obsession of Mike Teavee, it was obvious that these vices were the by-products of their toxic families. As the Oompa Loompas sang:

Oompa Loompa doompadee doo
I've got another puzzle for you
Oompa Loompa doompadah dee
If you are wise you will listen to me

Who do you blame when your kid is a brat
Pampered and spoiled like a Siamese cat?
Blaming the kids is a lie and a shame
You know exactly who's to blame:
THE MOTHER AND THE FATHER!

This 1970s view of parental responsibility suited me just fine. I started planning my summers with my new family in England and Norway. Surely Roald Dahl and Patricia Neal would welcome me into their large clan with open arms. “With love from Roald Dahl,” he wrote, not “Sincerely, Mr. Dahl.” Did Patricia Neal turn down “The Waltons” TV series so she’d have more time for us, her real children?

The next children’s book that Roald Dahl published was called “Danny the Champion of the World.” What was I to think? The author was obviously so inspired by my splendid letter and my pluck and determination that it inspired this new story. I searched in vain for any mention of me in the book’s dedication or the interviews he gave about his new work. But nothing could convince me that I wasn’t his Danny. Let’s see…how much allowance money did I need to get a one-way ticket to Gipsy House, the sprawling Dahl estate I would soon be calling home?

But like the characters in his books, I eventually realized that life does not provide any trouble-free Golden Tickets. It turned out that Roald Dahl and Patricia Neal had enough pain and misery in their lives to make my family drama look pretty rosey. The pain began even before their marriage. I read about Patricia Neal’s tumultuous five-year affair with Gary Cooper. At one point, Neal received a telegram that read, “I HAVE HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH OF YOU. YOU HAD BETTER STOP NOW OR YOU WILL BE SORRY. MRS. GARY COOPER.” Neal ultimately ended the affair and sent Cooper back to his wife. She had become pregnant during her affair with Gary Cooper and had an abortion, a decision she regretted for the rest of her life. Shortly thereafter, at a party in New York, she met an up-and-coming English author.

Patricia Neal and Roald Dahl were married on July 2, 1953, one month to the day before my Chicago parents walked down the aisle. But the Dahls’ married life was hardly the carefree one I fantasized about. The Dahls had five children but their infant son, Theo, was struck by a taxi, and needed years of physical therapy following a debilitating brain injury. (It was because of this injury that Dahl learned so much about the brain and was later able to help develop the shunt that saved his wife's life.) A few years after Theo's accident, the Dahls' eldest daughter, Olivia, contracted a bad case of the measles and died at the age of 7. And in the end, Roald Dahl and Patricia Neal went through their own well publicized divorce that was even more hideous than what my parents put each other through. Neal told all in her autobiography, “As I Am,” and following Dahl’s death in 1990 many people concurred that he could be a ruthless, egotistical bully. 

Patricia Neal was interviewed by Robert Osborne several years ago on Turner Classic Movies. Despite all the pain she suffered in her marriage and the awful things she wrote about her former husband, she admitted that he was the love of her life and that she still loved him with all her heart.  Go figure. It took decades, but my own family recovered from my parents’ divorce to such an extent that my father was one of the main speakers at my mother’s funeral. Like a good Roald Dahl story, life is so much more complex than lesser authors would have us believe.

Last February, as I mentioned on this blog, my son Charlie had a warm encounter with Patricia Neal. Kendall and Charlie were at Farmers Market when a woman in a wheelchair with a very distinctive gravelly voice started admiring Charlie. The two of them started flirting with each other and Charlie reached out to the elderly woman. When Kendall looked up she realized the woman in the wheelchair was none other than Neal. They talked for a while and Kendall complimented the actress on her magnificent career. Playing with Charlie, Neal never knew that her own tragedies were partly responsible for saving our son's life. 

As a result of his extreme prematurity, my son suffered a Grade IV Intraventricular Hemmorrhage on the left side of his brain at birth, the very same place where Neal had her strokes. Like Neal, Charlie has delays on the right side of his body and he still gets physical therapy to help him compensate for the damage. Also like Neal, Charlie has a shunt in his brain that drains excess fluid into his peritoneal cavity. He'll have the shunt for the rest of his life. I am eternally grateful for the pioneering efforts of so many, including Roald Dahl and Patricia Neal, that made this life-saving device possible. In addition to the amazing film work Neal leaves behind, one of her great legacies is the Patricia Neal Rehabilitation Center in East Tennessee that continues to help all sorts of people with brain injuries rebuild their lives. 

Rest in peace, Grandma!

Corvette Summer

 

I felt like CinderFella last week when General Motors lent me a sizzling hot 2011 Jetstream Blue Corvette Grand Sport Convertible with all the bells and whistles. Hot damn, that was a fun car to drive. On the first day I felt so self-conscious I wanted to hang a sign on the car that said “No, I’m not having a mid-life crisis, GM just lent me this car for a week!” But by Day 2, as I roared all over Los Angeles with my 6.2-liter LS3 V8 engine, I wanted to shout “Out of my way, you wussy Hondas and Toyotas, Daddy’s got a brand new car!” At nearly every stoplight, some “dude” on the street would shout a comment (“Does it drive as good as it looks?”) or just give me a thumbs-up. Not the kind of attention I’m used to getting while driving, let me tell you.

I was supposed to get a different car for the week, a less flashy one, when at the last minute I realized they were sending a car with manual transmission. I had to admit that I’ve never driven a manual car (I know, I should learn, but remember, I didn’t even get my driver’s license until I was 27 and about to move to Los Angeles!). Oh shoot, I thought, it’s back to my 1994 Civic. “Oh, wait a minute,” my contact said. “We do have a 2011 Corvette Convertible that just came in…would you like to try that?” Um…yeah!

Of course I wouldn’t exactly call the Corvette a family car. Because it’s a two-seater, there was no way I could drive with Charlie in the car since he still has to travel in his rear-facing car seat in the back. He was not pleased, believe me, but every time I brought him into the parked car, he lunged for the steering wheel. We spent a lot of time in the car together listening to the amazing Bose 7-speaker sound system that literally sounded better than a seat at L.A.’s Disney Hall—even when I was driving on the freeway with the top down! If I could buy the Corvette just to use as a high-class stereo, I would!

I’m getting used to luxury with these borrowed vehicles, but the Corvette’s two-tone perforated leather seats were a new kind of luscious. Unlike the other GM cars I’ve driven, this one was extremely low to the ground, and it was only around Day 5 or 6 when I finally got the hang of that jaunty way people get in sports cars—when you place your butt up on the seat and slide down in one smooth, comfortable move. “Bond. James Bond.”

 

This was the first car I’ve driven with a Head-Up Display. Instead of having to look at the cool retro dials on the dashboard, my speed and other pertinent information appeared projected into the windshield. Very cool. Even the pedals on this car were a work of art. Literally. They looked like something that would be on view at a Modern Art Museum.

 

The Corvette, as most car aficionados know, burst onto the scene in 1953 and was dubbed “America’s sports car.” The first mention of the car in the Los Angeles Times was in April 1953, heralding the Corvette's debut at the upcoming “GM Motorama” which would be held that June at the Shrine Auditorium (a magnificent building near my house which was also the site of the opening scenes of the film “A Star Is Born,” also shot that year). Oh, how I would’ve loved to have attended that year’s Motorama.

 

The Corvette was the top attraction at the massive admission-free event, which included a six-times-a day “Motorhythms” presentation shown on a mechanized, two-level stage and featuring ballet dancers telling the story of industrial engineering along with a 24-piece orchestra and 14-voice chorus. 

The sleek and gracefully low Chevrolet Corvette, now on display at the Motorama, will be the first of a new type of American sports car to be put into production with bodies of plastic-bonded laminations of molded Fiberglass. Chevrolet Motor Division has announced that production will begin in June, and that it will build 300 of the 160-h.p. Chevrolet Corvettes in the last half the 1953 model year and “substantially higher volume” in the 1954 model year. The two-passenger production sports car, only 33 inches high, is named Corvette after the trim, fleet naval vessel that performed heroic rescue and patrol duties in World War II.

The Corvette was such a hot car when it was introduced that it soon became associated with some of the most admired men in the country—the NASA astronauts. GM actually supplied the astronauts with two new cars each year, one family car for their wives and a Corvette for themselves. The men used to line up their Corvettes in the parking lot of the Johnson Space Center in Houston. Here’s a photo of Alan Shepherd’s Corvette which is now on display at the Kennedy Space Center’s Visitor Complex.

Remember the scene from “Terms of Endearment” when former astronaut Jack Nicholson terrorizes Shirley MacLaine with a wild drive on the beach in his Silver Anniversary edition Corvette? Corvettes were driven by many other movie characters, from Dirk Diggler in “Boogie Nights” to Felicity Shagwell in “Austin Powers: The Spy Who Loved Me” to, of course, the astronauts in “The Right Stuff” and “Apollo 13.” The car even starred in its own movie, the kitschy “Corvette Summer” starring Mark Hamill as a car-obsessed teen (filmed just after his Luke Skywalker days).

There have been six generations of Corvettes since the car’s debut in 1953. Originally built in Flint, Michigan, Corvettes are now manufactured at a plant in Bowling Green, Kentucky, also the home of the National Corvette Museum. Over the years the Corvette has won numerous awards, from one of the Top 100 Coolest Cars to the Most Coveted Vehicle to the Best Luxury Sports Car for the Money. Starting with the 2011 model, Corvette owners will have the chance to actually help assembly line workers build the V8 engine in their new car!

My own Corvette Summer came to an end pretty quickly. But that’s all right. I love the car but I’m not quite ready for it. It’s nice to be able to actually transport Charlie and my other family members again! Besides, I hear a canary yellow Camaro calling my name…