My First Days with A 1963 Chevrolet Impala Sport Sedan
By Hemmings Contributor August 31, 2024
A dream quickly becomes a nightmare!
Editor’s note: this article is authored by Jay David Schuck.
My mom’s Aunt Esther was a slim woman who always dressed to the nines and drove a chestnut-colored 1963 Chevrolet Impala Sport Sedan. One memory so strong to my 8-year-old self was running my eyes up and down the length of the car, captivated by its chrome, white painted top, and that expansive bench seat. Right away, it became a car that I hoped would be in my future, somehow, some way. I recall that, at age 11, I said, “I’d really like to have that car someday,” to which my great-aunt replied with a warm smile.
By the time I was 12, I was fully infected with the car bug and began riding my bike downtown, where all the primary dealerships were located. Not one of them is there today, though I remember the huge plate glass windows at each being covered every autumn with different paper or cloth to hide the new cars for the upcoming model year. Reveal day was a big deal then. What a wonderful time to learn about and fall in love with cars.
I began to peruse dealerships on Saturday mornings and dreamt about my ownership possibilities. At age 16, I test drove some used cars, and would bring some of them home with me, much to the dismay of my parents. As soon as I rolled into the driveway, my mom greeted me with, “Take it back, NOW! I’ll follow you there.” None of the cars I looked at, or drove, ever made it home permanently.
I’d gotten my driver’s license on my 16th birthday, but there was still no car of my own in the driveway. After attempting to bring home two different Mercury Capris, talking incessantly about my former babysitter’s Chevy Vega GT, and seeing my older cousin buy his first car, most of the talk of me buying a car to call my own came from yours truly. Several months later, however, my dad and I sat down and began talking openly about the idea. I was so thrilled that my parents were even thinking about it.
“What about Aunt Esther’s car?” he said. “Why don’t you call her and see what she says.”
I hurriedly called without sounding too anxious, and she agreed that she’d sell me her old Chevy for a dollar. According to her, it was to show that I “paid something for it.” I couldn’t have agreed more.
To bring the car home, we (my mom, grandpa, my kid brother Al, and I) drove the 30 or so miles to Aunt Esther’s. Getting there took an hour and was awkward, as the local highways (Ohio 2 and Interstate 90) did not go all the way from our house to hers just yet. It’s a much easier drive today.
We arrived on an early August evening to find Aunt Esther feeling a little melancholy, as she had inherited the Chevy from her brother after his passing in 1966. She’d owned it for 15 years at that point, and the odometer read only 36,000 miles. “Everyone from the service station attendants to the workers at the grocery store all want to buy my car,” she said. But now, it was mine.
Two blocks from Aunt Esther’s, the idyllic dream I had harbored started to resemble a nightmare. Crossing through an intersection, I heard something crack and bang loudly. Grandpa quickly pulled to the curb, got out, and looked underneath. An exhaust hanger had broken, and with his unique engineering capabilities, he grabbed some heavy rope from a toolbox and tied the exhaust to the frame.
Following this mishap, we opted to travel slower US 6 (or the Lake Road, as they called it). Everything was fine until about halfway home when the car overheated. Grandpa came to the rescue once more, suggesting we turn the heater on all the way. Was he kidding? In August? Yep, that’s what we did to get the car home. No more issues that night, and the Chevy was safely home 90 minutes later.
The next morning–my 17th birthday–I got up early, washed the car, vigorously scrubbed the whitewalls, and vacuumed the interior. I then excitedly ran into the house and asked my brother to join me for a ride to the gas station, two blocks away, to fill up. Mom heard the commotion and came outside to watch us drive off. I still recall her smile, her joy for her oldest son, having the car he’d always wanted. Her expression quickly changed after I shifted the car into reverse. “Slow down,” she yelled, to which I yelled back “I’ve got the pedal all the way down!” In the same fraction of a second our eyes met; we both knew what was wrong: The brakes had gone out as I began to descend our driveway.
As the car briskly sailed backwards, fearing what might happen, I realized there was no traffic on our usually busy street, and could easily direct the car onto the neighbor’s tree lawn. Or, if I turned hard enough, I’d make the other neighbor’s driveway. Not turning quite far enough, or perhaps too far, I wound up close to my destination, but instead collided with a utility pole. I hastily jumped out to inspect the damage and immediately thought I’d never open the trunk again.
Moments later, a police officer arrived, having seen the car dash into the roadway. He delivered the next blow to what was supposed to be a happy day when he proclaimed that the since tires were bald, I needed to keep the car off the road. But this was still not the end of my second trouble-filled day with the old Impala.
My grandpa, who lived two doors down, saw what was happening and came to my aid. My brother, grandpa, and I pushed that hefty car back into the apron of our driveway. None of us could manage the incline by pushing the car, so grandpa fired up the 283-cu.in. V-8, put the transmission in gear, and started climbing the driveway. He had three places to go with no brakes: the fence, the basketball pole, or the garage post. Grandpa chose to stop the Impala with a bonk using the center pillar of the two-car garage.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I went into the house and laid on the couch, feeling crushed. My dream car was officially the ultimate nightmare. In the following days, however, my dad and I spent a lot of quality time together making the Chevy roadworthy again. The Impala got me through a year of trouble-free driving, much to my albeit-delayed delight.
