John and Kay, auto-fashionistas

I have only the vaguest memories of the dark green 1957 Nomad with the Red Cigar band parked under the porte-cochère at Little Linden farm.  But I remember clearly the "new" cars, the 1967 or so Pontiac Wagon and the Oldsmobile Toronado (1969?).  The wagon was gold with a black top or some very stylish combination of black and gold.  It was one of those bloated american wagons with the two way tailgate and rear facing seats in the way-back. And because it was a Pontiac, it had the enormous chrome nose, which to my kid's eyes made it seem like the Firebird of station wagons (which I still thought were cool).  This was Grandmom's car, luxurious but useful.  Grandad's Toronado was medium, metalic blue, anything but useful.  As long as the wagon and 6 inches wider, it was a two door.  The white interior reminded you of the kind of white leather loafers that really rich guys wore, and indeed, they might also drive this kind of car.  The Toronado was the luxurious future, this was the car that the best sci-fi/car designers had saved for their flagship (flag-space-ship) vehicle. I remember looking at these two gleaming vehicles and thinking "wow", some people can really buy a car. 

There came that time when all I thought of was performance of the camaro, mustang,and GTO variety so these vehicles lost their high place of admiration.  However, once I was mostly "over" the muscle car phase, I remember stopping by to visit Kay. My grandfather had died a few years before and they had even given us the Pontiac wagon. But she was still driving the Toronado, "it just doesn't seem to have the pep it used to," she complained,"could you take a look at it?"  I lifted the 9 1/2 foot-long hood and gazed at the 455 cu engine. Nothing obvious seemed wrong.  I took it out for a "test-drive" in her quiet neighborhood.  Silently rolling out the white stone driveway, and sinking into the leather bench seat, I returned to my previous admiration of the car.  Wow, no tranny hump, and look at that speedometer; the drum type that rolls downward as you accelerate. I didn't want to throw any stones so I got all the way out on the street, lined up with the road and I pushed the pedal to the floor.  The car wasn't loud but the front tires started shreiking and I was pushed back into the -rather comfortable- seat.  Then the four-barrels kicked in about two seconds later and the front tires broke free, which is a very weird feeling in a front wheel drive boat.  I was going way too fast for this neighborhood, so I let off and saved it for a less populated street; went under 309 and made a right.  Again. Ferocious. And a little scary.  I brought the car back to Little Linden and parked it carefully in the driveway.  "Seems to be running okay to me, Grandmom,"  I said, still a little shaky from the adrenaline, "maybe you just need to move the seat up a little..."

What the hell was she doing with that thing?