EL DORADO‘S GREAT

 

 

 

 

“HAMMOND BROTHERS’ RACING TEAM”

 

 

 

by Don Switzer

SEE POSTSCRIPT BELOW ARTICLE:

 

 

SEE PARTIAL POSTSCRIPT BELOW AS WELL:

  

When I was a young boy growing up in Crossett, Arkansas, a mere forty-four miles from the considerably larger city of El Dorado, I often made the trip back and forth between these south Arkansas communities to be with my “Hammond brothers.” When I was in grade school and junior high, I would ride either the Greyhound or the Continental Trailways bus each way on the week-ends during the school year and just about anytime during school and summer vacations. Later on when I was in high school I still made the same trip driving my own car, just not as often because of the “demands” of growing up, i.e., sports and girls!

  

 

All of these trips obviously involved visiting with my Uncle H.H. Hammond and my Aunt Newell Hammond–my dear “Aunt Doll,” but, particularly their sons, i.e., Dennis (nicknamed “Gyp”) the oldest, followed in birth order by Jamie, Rick and Gary. They are now ages 64, 61, 58 and 56, respectively, while I am 67. Each of these Hammond men, except for the time one or the other spent in the military or in college, has lived his entire life in El Dorado, and they are part of what is a large, well-regarded extended family in this fine community.

 

The point here is that these trips changed my life and the lives of the Hammond brothers forever. The simple fact is that I spent much of my young life with the Hammond brothers with a superb relationship that I happily came to consider them my brothers as well. The trips also helped to create a very close bond between me and my dear Aunt Doll which lasted throughout her wondrous, even saintly life, and, literally, to her very last breath. That is a story that I previously related and which was published in August 2004 shortly after her death on the seventh of that month.

 

  

 

I am three years older than Gyp and have always been physically larger than any of my Hammond “brothers.” That was important in our youth as I was by the rules of the playground, which all young boys learn very early on, always “the boss of things.” This rule applied when it came to the great issues of the day, …such as where we going to play during those wonderful week-ends back in the 1950’s (the pond, the power line right of way, the horse barn, in the creek and brush behind the chicken house, the railroad tracks and trestles, etc.), and, of course, as to who got the biggest piece of pie or cake that Aunt Doll made for us! That “privilege” of being the older one, of course, disappeared over the years as we all matured and as an acknowledged and assumed mutual love and respect settled over each of us.

 

 

 

Time went by, we each had our own careers, we each got older, as did Uncle Pitt and Aunt Doll, but there was always the more intermittent yet still “constant” of sitting around the kitchen table, visiting and telling our life stories well into the night whenever we could get together–which was pretty often no matter where I may have been in my peripatetic career! For all of my own sixty-seven years, even though I grew up and attended public school in Crossett and have lived and worked all over the U.S., “going home” has always included going to El Dorado and being with “my Hammond family”–though they are known to the rest of the world by another name than I.

 

  

 

Lots of childhood stories have been told about the five of us in the very early years, and chronicled elsewhere, but I have decided that it is now time to focus on the four Hammonds, as determined by blood, during their teen and young twenties time frame because: i.) the “statute of limitations” upon youthful indiscretion has now run!; and ii.) we are all progressing ever so much more quickly through the years. For the record, I do, of course, maintain that I was in all respects non-complicit in these particular happenings and did not know of many of them until months or sometimes years after they had occurred. But if it were not for me, I am certain that these warm nostalgic memories of a different era and a different type of youthful passion would all simply rise into the winter breeze, drift away and never again be within our grasping.

 

  

 

Gyp, Jamie, Rick and Gary have always loved automobiles–especially the fast kind. From watching them in the fine family auto shop that they and Uncle Pitt built to indulge their passion, I early came to the conclusion that they did not especially want to buy or even drive automobiles that General Motors, Porsche, Dodge, or Ford manufactured to “go fast.” No, there was so much more fun in making an “everyday” family vehicle become a fast street racer. In retrospect it seems to me almost as though the three older boys were “born” with a wrench in their hands and their heads under the hood of some automobile.

 

But Gary was, in a sense, “caught” by always being in the unglamorous position of being the youngest sibling, so he, precisely as I had been with respect to my own older brother Barry, started out as a dutiful “hanger on.” But, though my tutelage was in learning how to play snooker, eight-ball and throw the shot-put and discus, Gary and I each learned our respective avocations by watching our older sibling(s). After much time witnessing the successes and great fun of his older brothers, Gary did learn and become a very good hand with a wrench and at “popping a clutch” as well.

 

  

I still play a good game of eight ball!

 

  

 

When I say that they (all four of them) “loved” vehicles, it must be understood that the depth of feeling was so great that it was obvious to all who watched them in the “doing of it” or in recounting it later. It was not that they “said” they did; one could see it in their eyes! Even Aunt Doll, although always counseling the boys “to be careful,” and certainly praying for safety behind their backs, understood and accepted their obsession and saw it blossom whether they were bolting on a new manifold, adjusting a friend’s carburetor, or when simply opening a parts shipment from General Motors, Edelbrock or any of a dozen or more O.E.M. and “aftermarket” vendors with a new “go fast” part. It was amazing to see that although these parts were always made of metal, they had no shelf life at all, for within moments of receipt, the parts were always put to the wrench.

 

  

I picked up most of the stories by bits and pieces over the years around the kitchen table, but as they came to me, appropriate notes were filed away in my old steamer trunk for this ultimate retrieval. As I was just in the past week looking through my “notes,” my first realization was that I could not tell the “entire story” as there is no reasonable way to do so. As an accommodation to practicality, I am, therefore, limiting myself to recounting what can be called “representative” samples of what were really unquestionably hundreds of similar events that happened in their “hot-rod” El Dorado youth. These sample stories, taken together, paint a micro-portrait of what the whole was like for an entire group of young men in the 1960’s and 1970’s in “El Dorado, America.”

 

  

It occurred to me that as the boys grew up and experienced what they did, much of it fit certain scenes and the story line in the 1963 classic motion picture American Graffiti. Of course, there were the “main drags” where everyone drove their vehicles, more loudly than necessary, just to be seen and heard; but I was particularly struck by one story told me by both Rick and Gyp concerning a routine practice the young boys in El Dorado often engaged in during this era to confound the local and highly well-intentioned El Dorado police. As described to me, and just as in American Graffiti, there was a regular meeting place for the car enthusiasts on North West Highway in the parking lot in front of what was then a Payless Shoe Store. This “gathering place,” sometimes of four or five vehicles and sometimes a dozen or so, always attracted the attention of the local police as they were trying to figure out where the kids were planning to go to race. Quite properly, in this game of cat and mouse, the cat was trying to stop them from endangering themselves or others.

 

  

One evening, after one of the of the police cars had passed by heading out of town on North West, one of the young boys came up with the idea of tricking the particular officer–who all of the boys, of course, knew well. Everyone loved the idea. So, the next time one of the cruisers came by, all of the cars that had been in the Payless lot simply moved across the street to the very back of the old Dairy Queen lot and parked in a straight line behind the old Dairy Queen, vertical to the street in such a way that none of them could be seen from North West. Sure enough, as soon as the next cruiser went by and did not see the boys’ cars, the officer got on the radio! In a seeming instant, four or five cruisers went flashing by with lights on and sirens blaring heading out to their best guess of where the boys would be running that evening. But the boys did not “run” at all that night! They just stayed behind the Dairy Queen, laughed, and talked about girls and cars, mostly cars, until it was time to go home.

 

  

After much lawyerly cross examination of my Hammond brothers concerning these topics, I concluded that they were telling me the truth relating to two very important parts of these experiences. I determined that none of the young men, to their knowledge, was ever hurt, and at least insofar as the four Hammonds were concerned, in their own endeavors, they were never caught by either the Police or the State Troopers–although for a time each of them did “hold the title” of having the fastest street racer in El Dorado. Gyp did point out, however, that one time when the police, or troopers, were coming up upon the “course,” the cars all ran off in different directions and all escaped “detection.” Several young men who had just been standing and watching, however, suddenly found themselves without rides and then running into the woods where they had to lay down in a huge patch of bull nettle–all the while watching the police cruiser spot-lights flash above their prone bodies.

  

 

I asked Gyp several years ago who “Joe Mack” was, as this was a name which kept popping up in the accounts of various events, and I was curious. I was told he was one of their very best friends whose full name was Joe McHenry and who, sadly, died a number of years ago from leukemia. But Gyp says that “back in the day,” Joe Mack was somewhat of a “rabble rouser”–but only in the benign sense that he played the role of a match-maker” for the evening! That is, he assumed the role of deciding which cars were to race which other cars. Gyp said that Joe Mack was very good at what he did, i.e.,”…he would always ‘rag us’ until we would do it!” Joe Mack was a talented instigator. I’ve seen men with similar skills at carnivals, or even on Bourbon Street, urging clientele into their establishments!

 

  

One night in the ’60’s, probably 1969 shortly before Gyp went into the Air Force and served in Viet Nam, a fellow from out of town showed up with a nice looking ‘69 red and white Pontiac Bonneville convertible with four-speed and a 389 cu. in. engine (but with only a rated 303 horse power engine)–looking for a race. No one knew who he was, whether he had just moved to town or what, but knowing that guys with good cars usually hang out at one or two places, it did not take the new fellow long to find the Payless parking lot and take it for what it was. Joe Mack was not there that night or some embarrassment might have been avoided, as the young fellow just came in and acted as if he owned the place. This fairly large, husky red-headed fellow stopped, got out, told everyone his name (which Jamie thinks was “Ed” something or another) and that he was there to race. He looked at all of the cars and said, “I want to run that yellow ‘56 Chevy over there.” No one gave the imposing young innocent any lip. They let him think that he knew what he was doing.

 

The particular 1956 yellow two-door coupe pointed to by the “newbie” had a stock 301 cu. in. engine, but it had been fitted with special fuel injection heads, T-10 four speed transmission, a high output AFB carburetor and a specially machined .030 cam shaft. In other words, despite its outward appearance, it was anything but “stock.” So, the young fellow, with the assent of the owner of the yellow Chevrolet, i.e., Gyp Hammond, had arranged his first match of the evening.

 

  

The troop took off for one of the three major “raceways” of the time (chosen for their remoteness, lack of traffic and absence of driveways) which were: i) the Standard Umpstead Road (CR 72) running from CR 68 over to a small community called “Standard Umpstead,” north of Norphlet and east of Smackover; ii.) Highway 335 running to the north off of the Magnolia highway, a mile or so west of Goodwin Field; iii.) a very good and “hidden” road (also part of Highway 335) behind the Monsanto plant just outside El Dorado; and iv.) an unnamed road in front of the Monsanto plant–which was a little dangerous for the young men to use because it was blocked on one end and made a quick “getaway” most difficult!

 

  

They waited for the police car to “clear” per his precisely timed schedule, and the entire group immediately went out to Standard Umpstead, where the new boy was given a free run to familiarize himself with the facilities. Just before they were to start the actual race, the big red-headed fellow got out of the Pontiac and crawled under each side–extending and locking into place what are called “dumps,” that is, side exhaust extensions running from each bank of manifolds which have the effect of directing engine exhaust around the mufflers and of enhancing engine performance to a fairly significant degree. Gyp was apparently not impressed with the “display,” and he and “newbie” took off with the flag and while going through first and second gears Gyp got a quick two car length lead. Feeling sorry for the fellow, Gyp put it into third gear but really just coasted over the finish line, merely maintaining the two car length lead against the over-matched vehicle.

 

  

The new fellow had been chagrinned, embarrassed…and decided that he needed another match to redeem his pride. He looked around at all of the vehicles and saw one that he just knew he could beat. He said, “I’ll run that ragged old Chevelle over there.” He had pointed to an indeed ragged-looking old Chevelle, but unbeknownst to the young fellow, this particular small Chevelle, which just happened to belong to the other Hammond brother present, Jamie, had the 350 cu. inch option, an Inken 305 fuel injector, a specially machined 2.02 cam shaft, and two 1.6 ” extra large valves per cylinder. Jamie indeed just had the grey primer coat on, as he had started a full re-painting job and was just not finished! I would theorize that Jamie was perhaps a little sensitive that his “pet” 350 had been referred to in such a derogatory fashion!

 

  

Jamie agreed to “run” the fellow, but he kind of mumbled under his breath (which both Gyp and Rick happened to hear), “What’s the point?” But, regardless, this Mr. Hammond showed no mercy and let it all out–beating the new fellow by several car lengths while continuing to accelerate through the one quarter mile finish line. The evening was over and Jamie showed absolutely no remorse or embarrassment at having demonstrated to the “new feller” what a real stroked, caressed and loved street racer could do. It occurred to me the first time I heard of this event, decades ago, that Jamie, as kind and unpretentious a fellow as one could ever meet or know, was just never able to relate the concept of mercy to the endeavor of racing automobiles! There was a mutual exclusivity.

  

  

The next morning the new kid in town, “Ed,” happened to eat breakfast with Steve Rhodes, a friend of all of the Hammonds. After the new boy finished relating the events of the night before and describing the cars, he concluded by telling Steve that, “The guys around here don’t run street cars; they all have real race cars!” Steve laughed and said, “No, actually all of the cars you spoke of are street legal and are driven to work every day–and I could go around town and show you where every single one of them is parked.” He then added, “Oh, by the way, that ’short, fat ______ ‘(expletive) you spoke of in the yellow Chevy is one of my best friends, Gyp Hammond. And I have to say, too…you really know how to start at the top and work your way down!”

 

  

At some point in early 1970, Gyp knew that he was going to be drafted by the Army, and he decided to join the Air Force instead–to take advantage of certain technical courses available in that branch of service. At one point during his stateside duty and training he was to be stationed at Ellsworth AFB in Rapid City, S.D., and he determined to drive his yellow ‘56 Chevy up to South Dakota for the posting. When he arrived and was “squared away,” he telephoned home to tell the family that he had arrived safely and the like.

 

  

As background, there are two points that must be made. At the particular time in question Jamie was living in the homestead on Forest Lane with his mother, my “Aunt Doll” (Newell), who usually answered the family phone and participated in the conversations, especially if the call was from a family member. Secondly, she would “sign off” if the conversation turned to something purely personal to someone else on the line–respecting the other’s privacy. Well, the telephone rang in El Dorado that particular evening, Aunt Doll answered, and Jamie got on the line at another extension when Doll announced that it was Gyp calling.

 

After a while of visiting, Gyp apparently thought that his mother had hung up and started talking about another incident that had occurred as he had neared Rapid City or Ellsworth; I am not certain which. In any event, the gist of it was that it was very late at night, his was the only vehicle on the controlled access highway, and he missed his exit. Wanting to arrive so that he could go to bed, he was a little “miffed” that he had missed the exit, so he pushed the accelerator down considerably further than was usual on non-racing occasions. He told Jamie that after a little bit and before he reached a turn around point, the tachometer had run up to 8,000 r.p.m. (considerably higher than any production auto can reach–except for some “exotics”). Then his Mom, who was, unbeknownst to the boys, still on the line, simply said,

 

  

“Eight thousand? What does that mean?

 

  

Without missing a beat, Jamie answered, “Oh, about one hundred forty miles per hour.”

 

  

No one has ever mentioned to me what Aunt Doll said at that point, if anything, but I can easily imagine her saying something like, “My goodness! Gyp, that sounds awfully fast”

 

  

After Gyp shipped out (by air actually on a Boeing 707) from Barksdale AFB in Shreveport to Viet Nam, the yellow ‘56 Chevrolet was left for Jamie to use. Gyp recently mentioned to me that Jamie made some “modifications” to the vehicle while he was away for his two tours in Viet Nam–changes that I do not pretend to really understand. But the notes I made indicate that Jamie put in a new 350 cu. in. small block G.M. engine to replace the 301 that had been in it. With this he joined a new Muncie four speed racing transmission and a special Holley carburetor that would, almost as it the car were turbocharged, “push” six hundred cubic feet per minute of air through the engine–along with the appropriately measured amount of fuel. All of which made the car travel go especially fast! The tachometer would easily reach nine thousand–without breathing hard.

 

  

So-called present day NASCAR Sprint “stock” cars that run with professional sponsorship at places like Talladega, Kansas City, and Homestead-Miami with drivers such as Jimmie Johnson, Kyle Busch and Jeff Gordon certainly “rev” and run quite a bit faster (200 m.p.h. or so on straights) than this old Chevy could even after these latest modifications. But the Chevy was still remarkable by comparison when one considers that it was essentially “constructed” by teenagers or young twenty year olds using tips from auto magazines and a lot of native intelligence and experience. (There are, of course, many other differences and endurance capacities the professional cars have, but this comparison is clearly apt. It is as though the Hammonds had become AA minor league professional baseball players hoping to make the big leagues!)

 

Rick also “played around” a little with his 1969 Z-28 SS Camaro–now an especially valuable “Classic” model which he is supposed to be in the middle of restoring as I write this. (His wife Dianne has, in fact, told him that he cannot buy that new 2010 or 2011 Camaro until he finishes the restoration of the Classic ‘69!) Rick told me that the car has a regular 350 cu. in. small block but a special Iskenderian Z-50 cam-shaft–which allows the engine to “turn over” at a much higher rate than it would if it had the standard O.E.M. cam, i.e., around nine thousand. He also added a Weind intake manifold mated with a Carter one thousand cu. ft. per minute thermo-quad carburetor. All of this was added to the “standard” Hurst close ratio four-speed transmission, an extra air induction cowl hood and an engine that on a regulation Government dynometer tested at 290 horsepower. Post purchase tests of the engine revealed the true “standard” h.p. of the that particular engine to be almost 400 h.p., while Rick’s, as modified, would have been considerably higher than that. Not many, if any, street legal cars of any era would be able to compete with this particular configuration of standard and after-market features.

 

[For certain valuable considerations, I have purchased the rights to the second road test of the renovated Z-28 when it is completed. Rick is, however, to be seated alongside me to make certain I don't do anything "stupid!" His insurance will by that time, of course, be fully updated to add this vehicle to his coverage.]

 

Rick had his tests of “bragging rights,” and for a time he and Jamie appear to have simply exchanged them–in effect keeping the “trophy” in the family!

 

On another occasion when Joe Mac happened not to be around, someone driving a 1970 Ford Shelby GT 500 came by the Payless parking lot and wanted a contest if anyone were willing to run against him. Jamie, ever the mischievous sort, talked up and arranged a run between the Ford Shelby and Rick’s Camaro. They all went out to the road behind the Monsanto plant. The Shelby GT, which was one of history’s greatest post production mass modified street racers (sold in bulk by a third party corporation other than Ford) had no chance against Rick’s Camaro. Rick won, not surprising anyone other than the driver of the Shelby!

 

 

The El Dorado City Police were much interested in the cars driven by the Hammond boys–as men who liked and appreciated great cars in addition to trying to catch them on occasion. One time in 1972, one officer (his name seems to have “washed out” on my notes) stopped Jamie in the aisle of a store downtown one time and visited with him. I imagine that Jamie was initially a little concerned, but soon it was apparent that the gentleman was merely interested, for his own edification, in riding with Jamie to get an idea as to how such a car would run, or what it felt like. Jamie was relieved to set out to take him for a ride in the ‘56 Chevy. When they were still in the City and accelerated somewhat after turning a corner, the policeman said, “My _____, no wonder we can’t catch you fellows!” Jamie was flabbergasted and said, “I haven’t done anything yet. I’m still in first gear.”

  

 

They went out to one of the “tracks,” and after making certain the location was “secure” and he had extracted an additional promise that this was not a an “entrapment”, Jamie ran a quarter mile for the officer. Jamie stole a glance at the officer after the end of the run and saw that his face was white, all of his blood having been drained to the rear of his body! After a while and during the ride back downtown the officer simply said, “I really do not understand how you make a car do something like that. But I will say that for the first time I understand why we never seem to even gain ground on any of you fellows in those junk cars the City gets for us!” (State troopers do have vehicles with better high performance “police packages”.)

 

 

All is not “rosy” in the modification and re-tooling of vehicles to help them reach their maximum potential. On occasion, something does go wrong, although it can be said that when it does, something is always learned–just as most of us saw in the development of space flight. At one point, Gyp was trying out a particular engine and transmission configuration in the yellow ‘56, and when he was testing it, he thinks probably at the downtown airport during the brief time the City had it open to “racers,” the transmission “ruptured” and the clutch pressure plate and disc ripped out of the transmission. These potentially lethal pieces went through the firewall, and were stopped by the inside dash. Gyp’s memory is that the parts “went straight,” that is, in line with the transmission as it goes from front to rear in the vehicle, and would have missed his body even if they had penetrated the dashboard. Although I still thought to myself the first time I heard about the event that this little factoid would not have made me breathe any easier.

 

 Once Rick wanted to have some machining work done on the Camaro’s engine in order to increase the cylinder diameter and piston size and raise the horsepower even more. He had the work done by a particular shop in Monroe, LA, that specialized in such machining work. But the person doing the work either failed to build appropriate new piston rods to fit the new tolerances or to properly attach the rods to the cam shaft with the correct bolts, correct torque, or the like… I don’t recall which was the problem, but, in any event, while Rick was simply driving normally, or running through the gears without placing any undue stress on the components, the engine exploded! It came totally apart and was destroyed. And Rick himself then undertook a long and total re-build. I never asked Rick if he made any financial settlement with the machinist–that being pretty irrelevant at this point.

 

One other highly memorable occasion did not even result in a race. On one of those early 1970’s occasions, Rick came up to a stop light near the Pizza Hut and saw that he had just by chance pulled up beside Jeff Thornton, a member of the local “Mustang Club.” Steve Rhodes, a friend of all of the Hammonds, happened to be riding with Thornton, and Thornton started to talk about setting up a race with Rick’s Camaro. At that point, Rhodes later told Rick that he said something to Thorton like, “No, Steve, you don’t want any part of that car. That Camaro will not only beat you, it will hurt you!”

 

But as noted above, even ‘69 Camaros are not bulletproof, or immune to “error” or mishap. And sometimes the mishap is due to misjudgment of the driver. One time Gyp was driving back from town to the Hammond family home and happened to drive up just as Rick was lowering the far left garage door–one of the three. As Gyp came closer to the garage he could see from Rick’s face that something had happened and quickly got out and asked him what was wrong. Rick did not say a word, but just motioned for Gyp to follow him. The two of them walked around what was then a brand new Camaro and over to the driver’s side. As Gyp looked down, the left front fender had been “greatly distorted in appearance…”–that’s “Gyp talk” for being wiped out!

 

 

Rick said, “Well, how do you like that!” He then proceeded to tell Gyp what had happened. He had a simple, less than exciting explanation. It seems that shortly after he had turned off of Mt. Holly Road and onto Forest lane, and likely having momentarily forgotten about the loose gravel at that point of Forest Lane, he “gunned” the engine. (As Gyp says, he, as the “responsible” older brother, had warned his younger brother that this vehicle had much more torque than anything he had ever had before and that he should be especially careful until he was very familiar with how it operated.) Well, perhaps due to both untoward circumstances, the rear wheels quickly spun out of control, and threw the car into an arc to the left. Before Rick could regain control, even with braking, the automobile had passed into Mr. Tweedle’s yard, slid past a certain large pine tree to his left as he was spinning and finished a full one hundred eighty degree spin at the exact instant that its left front fender struck the back side of said pine tree. With the formerly beautiful ‘69 Camaro turned as if headed back out to Mt. Holly Road!

 

  

Rick noted to me in the re-telling that the tree was totally undamaged. I said out loud the first thing that passed through my mind: “There ought to be neon-printed rule in Office of Driver Services Manual for the taking of the Driver’s License exam that reads: “‘Whenever automobile and large pine tree engage in combat, tree always wins.’”

  

Gary attained “racing age” after the other boys had really passed it and gone on to other things. As noted earlier, that did not stop him from learning the ropes, becoming an excellent driver and how to fix things that went wrong, but he did not want or obtain a “history” like that of his three older brothers. He spent four years at Louisiana Tech during what would have been his “big years,” but, more importantly, he married a lovely young lady and his tastes in vehicles turned out to be properly “pedestrian” for his family…but still “exotic” for his “play toy.” He bought a classic Porsche 911, of 1960’s vintage, I believe painted green. I drove it with him once out on Mt. Holly Road and then, obviously disappointed with my lack of expertise, he showed me how it SHOULD be driven!

 

 

The last thing I heard about that car was that it had been fully disassembled in preparation for a total re-build. It started with the total automobile being taken apart and then lying for some time on the floor of the boys’ shop awaiting Gary’s own work–which never seemed to happen! And I’m sure for which Gary could not find time.) Then Gary’s wife Deborah, wanting to give Gary a great present, asked Gyp to help her get it organized, properly packaged and then shipped and to a professional rebuilder in St. Louis–which Gyp gladly did. I have not seen the Porsche since the time it was originally scattered all over the shop floor. And I have not seen Gary for a couple of years. I hope, I dearly hope, that he still has the car, fully re-stored, and that he enjoys it on a daily basis.

 

 

As for the older brothers, I am disappointed in all of them! Several never before considered factors over-took each of them, viz.: age, good judgment, demands of earning a living, and slower reflexes. In Gyp’s case matters have been further complicated by a job-related injury to his back ten or fifteen years ago. He does still drive a forty plus year old Chevrolet Impala that is in mint condition, as he is still a compulsive “fixer-upper.” Which is a GOOD thing!

 

 

Jamie kind of “keeps his hand in” since he drives a huge two year old Nissan Titan pick-up which he described to me as “…kind of like a race car on a truck frame!”

 

I really do not know what Rick drives on a daily basis–but it cannot be anything particularly attention-getting since I have walked right by it in his garage perhaps a dozen times in the last couple of years and cannot even remember what it is. He still has the ‘69 Camaro which has now been towed up the hill to his brand new auto shop which he and his wife Dianne built. It should be added that his wife Dianne has threatened divorce unless he finishes the “re-build” within about six months from this coming Christmas!

 

 

Well, folks, while I do issue a “disclaimer” as to some of the technical jargon, that gives what I believe is an accurate and, to me, nostalgic portrait of my Hammond brothers in what most folks today consider a “special, nostalgic time”–with a short up-date on their accelerating years. We all have the latter, but most of us are not as fortunate as they in that we cannot approach these ever-encroaching years having had such an important era in our lives marked by the ability to carry out a true, heart-felt passion and be among the very best at it. Most of us do not have anywhere near the quantum of wonderful memories of our younger years that these now very “responsible” men have.

 

 By the way, if anyone believes the young fellows were irresponsible to drive that fast…well, that is assuredly correct. But the larger truth is that what they really were was a group of wholesome, clean cut young men who lived life so well, had lots of good clean fun, and never hurt a soul. I would add that they had never even touched beer or liquor, and I know they had never “heard of” marijuana or other such things with which any of today’s youth are cursed. “Go fast” is not in itself a bad thing–especially when one had access to all of that after-market equipment and the 104 octane gasoline of the time made by Gulf Oil Company!

 

  

I wish we had all been as blessed as Aunt Doll’s boys have been.

 

 Don Switzer

Rogers, Arkansas

WWW.PoliticsandWhimsey.Com

(c) February 2, 2010

POSTSCRIPT: This particular article, or post, has been in progress for several months, much of the time waiting on my cousin Dennis “Gyp” Hammond to provide editorial help with respect to some of the precise names and specifications of the “after-market” parts placed upon the various vehicles.  I went ahead and finished the article, however, since “Gyp” is now very, very ill and in Baptist Hospital in Little Rock.  He still has, after two months of medical treatment–including brain surgery, an infection in his brain which apparently started from a simple sinus infection.  Some parts of his brain which are still infected include areas which cannot be operated upon without killing him–or rendering him a “vegetable.”  The various “cocktails” of antibiotics that have been used have not been successful in curing the problem.  We are all extremely worried about him–and I thought it best to go ahead and finish this post since it has always been intended, in a sense, as a tribute to him and a particular era of our National history of which he was a superb representative–regardless of one’s feelings about the “racing part” which was represented in wonderful cinematic detail in the motion picture “American Grafitti.”  By the way, I always figured that Harrison Ford played Gyp’s role in the movie.

 

 

PARTIAL POSTSCRIPT:  “GYP” DIED AT 12:30 A.M. ON MAY 24, 2010. 

 

 

 

 

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