We were tribal. There’s no other way to view it. If I were Margaret Mead I might have a better handle, yet, with my limited anthropological skills, allow me to make the follow observations.

Tribes were determined by love of car manufacturer. The Phelps’s and Roebuck’s were of the Chevy Tribe. Not General Motors, Chevy. General Motors also produced Oldsmobile’s and you had to be really old to be in the Oldsmobile Tribe. My Grandfather Gildersleeve was in the Oldsmobile Tribe and he was not only really old, but he was also fantastically mechanical, as in steam engine mechanics. This old tribe was Titanic in their abilities to generate power. Their roots were in locomotives and the ability to move great tonnages of stuff in relatively straight lines. This heavy quality carried over into the Olds. But youth wanted speed and agility and overthrew the Titans. Hence, Chevy.

The principal rival to the Chevies were the Ford Tribe. The great 1957 357 Chevy Station Wagon was considered the beast, but Ford outsold Chevy that year. Nobody cared about sales numbers. Everyone was young and poor. If you were going to own a car, you had to build it. And after you built it, you had to be able to maintain it, and after you could maintain it, you had to customize it.

Motorheads could disassemble anything made with nuts and bolts. It wasn’t my favorite thing. Twisting wrenches gave me tennis elbow. Therefore, I was relegated to parts-washer. This job was even more horrendous because all those motor parts were washed in straight gasoline, leaded! Wire brush and gasoline and a towel. Sitting under a tree on the lawn, the sun June-like, washing pistons and barrel heads and rods and, I don’t know, carburetor parts for the more mechanically inclined to reassemble, hopefully in the proper order. The exciting part was at the end to see if the damned thing would turnover and kick off. There could be explosions. Then the true technicians were called in to do the “timing”, whatever that was, and fine tune the air to gas ratio. These motors were heavy. We were like 14, 16. The lucky ones had lifts, or their old man hooked them up with block and tackle, or a chain hoist latched over beams in the tractor shed.

Now the Balogh’s and Birdsall’s were Volkswagen people and knew all the outlets for imports. These lighter cars were frowned upon by the other tribes and they were not allowed to drag race on Route 52. Route 52 had a great straightway which ran right through the middle of Phelps land and this was a hot spot for drag racing, and chicken sports, and the squealing tires could be heard in the village on a still night. While Margaret Mead would not hesitate to note this preoccupation with automobiles was clinically rooted in the teenage American male aspiration for sex, to the mating impulse, girls were rarely, if ever, invited to the racing events themselves which remained a male domain. The results of the contests were spread by hot rumor. The females of the species proved less tribal, more willing to jump tribe, if the proof was in the pudding. And this was a healthy thing.

In time, the Volkswagen/Karmann Ghia tribe moved on to even lighter fare and eventually began the Ultralight Tribe. You might catch one or two survivors on a late summer afternoon buzzing over your head.

Corvette or Mustang, Bel Air or Fairlane, the world was big and loud, and glass packed. We were part of it. We didn’t have gangs; we were tribal and to this day I know motorheads that won’t switch, and, in fact, I know one Ford guy that won’t touch the new Ford Mustang because it’s electric! Just battery, no motor! How can you have motorheads with no motor?