Conestoga station wagon didn’t make a hit, or run

Back a half-centur y or so (mostly or so) when I hadn’t gained the wisdom of old age, I made some mistakes in judgment — some might say “Stupid.”

I can understand that. In fact, with all the wisdom I HAVE gained, I’d agree.

I worked in the Studebaker dealership in Provo, Utah. If you’re old enough, the name may make a connection, but if not, Studebaker was first a manufacturer of horse-drawn wagons, and when the horse was replaced by selfpowered vehicles, Studebaker climbed on board (so to speak).

But by the mid-1950s General Motors, Ford and Chr ysler had pretty much laid claim to the most popular vehicles, and the “independents” like Studebaker, struggled to keep pace.

One of the models they introduced was their version of a station wagon, the SUV of the day.

Aside from the 1956 Chevrolet Nomad, (a highly sought after car with today’s collectors) about the only thing in common was that the models were mostly ugly and utilitarian. Just the thing that would appeal to the up-and-comers of the time.

I somehow convinced myself that I needed (wanted) a homely little 1954 Studebaker Conestoga station wagon.

I should have given the model name a little more thought — “Conestoga wagon” — isn’t that what the pioneers used to haul their families and belongings out West? Hmm.

Anyway, I bought the darned thing, and as hard as itrie di couldn’ t get it to fit the image I hoped to portray. Another acquisition of the time was a new girlfriend, a certain Sharon Lupus. As I recall, she didn’t share my enthusiasm for the Conestoga.

That summer, Sharon spent part of her vacation with her grandparents in Salt Lake City, and one Saturday evening I drove the 45 miles north from Provo to pick her up, go to dinner and take in a movie.

After ward, we spent some time relaxing in Pioneer Park, sitting on the grass and talking. Knowing I had the drive to make back to Provo and my apartment, I dropped Sharon off at her grandparents’ home and I was in my bed before midnight.

My mother was living in Payson, about 20 miles south of Provo, and I had promised earlier to pick her up and take her to Mass in a neighboring town.

After church, we were driving back to Payson when I noticed a Highway Patrol car following me. I glanced at my speedometer, and for once I wasn’t speeding, but the patrolman stayed right behind us.

I decided to take a road less traveled, and pulled off the main highway, only to find that he was still there, but had added the attentiongetting, red flashing lights. I pulled over.

When he came up to the car, he asked for my license, etc., and then asked if I’d been in Salt Lake City the night before.

When I confirmed that I had, he said: “I noticed you have some body damage to the front of your car, and a car like yours was involved in a hit and run accident in SLC.”

I was told that I needed to go to the main police station in Salt Lake, ask for a certain detective who had a few questions for me. Oh, and he added: “You need to get up there today!”

I dropped Mom off at her home, then stopped at my apartment, changed clothes and phoned Sharon to tell her of my exciting morning. She was worried, but knew we’d not had any accident, and I assured her it would be OK.

A couple of hours later, I parked in front of the police station, made the contact with the detective and explained that I’d been in the city the night before with my girlfriend, but we’d not been involved in any accident.

We stepped outside, and he walked around my car. He spent several long minutes checking out the damage to the front of the car. Then, reaching in his shirt pocket, pulled out a small, brown envelope and a pair of tweezers, poked the tweezers into the envelope, and withdrew a small, red paint chip — and placed it on my car — it was the exact color!

I held my breath, as he held the swatch there for a few seconds against the damaged area, then put it back in the envelope, and told me, with a friendly pat on my shoulder: “Well, Mike, it obviously wasn’t your car that was involved.” I let an audible sigh. He pointed to a rusty spot on the front of the car. “There is rust on the bare metal and that doesn’t occur overnight so, obviously, it wasn’t your car! So, we’ll keep on looking. Sorr y to have bothered you.”

He turned, and walked back into the station.

I couldn’t wait to give the good news to Sharon.

But you know, I still wonder, just who else could have had the lack of judgment to buy a Studebaker Conestoga wagon?