Devotion to a brand can be a blind spot

Lorraine Sommerfeld

My dad was an AMC man.

AMC stood for one thing in this house: American Motors Corporation. Dad did cars like he did politics, money and any topic that tended to polarize people: straight up, his way or no way. He narrowed his eyes at my uncle who worked at Ford and who once innocently asked if my dad would like to receive the employee discount my uncle was entitled to. We didn't talk cars with that uncle after that.

When my sister showed up with her first car, a Volkswagen Beetle, its non-AMC-ness was mitigated only by its German-ness. We were, after all, Germans by name.

I would listen to heated arguments with his friends as they pulled up in whatever was new and cool. The only thing my father cared about was an eight-cylinder engine to haul tools and junk to the cottage and firewood back home. And that it was an AMC.

When my other uncle, Gayle, would arrive in his new sedan, my mother would swoon at the sheer luxury. Uncle Gayle used to drive a little runabout for work – his favourite was a Colt – and keep a fancy car in the garage. I once marvelled that they had two cars (my Aunt Katie didn't drive), and yet they didn't have kids. My mother informed me that was precisely the reason they could afford two cars.

The AMC dealer would always have to special order for Dad. It wasn't everyone who wanted a car with no extras. None. Air conditioning gave Dad a headache and wasted gas. That's why you had windows. Intermittent wipers? Just another motor to break. Power windows? One more motor to conk out and besides, that's why you had arms. Velour seats? That's what blankets were for. The first car we got that had power steering – the 1976 Matador – made my mother weep.

My father watched the demise of AMC. He'd been steadfast in his devotion, but its attempts at reincarnation weren't enough to keep him in the fold. I remember a salesman calling to sell him a Renault after AMC joined forces with that company. I believe his distinct words were "I will never drive that piece of crap."

When the Eagle came out, my dad, a station wagon man to his core, growled that it was a ridiculous mess that didn't know if it was a car or a truck.

As retirement loomed and the nest emptied out, the next car was a Mercury Topaz. I don't know if the Ford uncle ever knew that; I do know that Dad never cared as much again after his beloved AMC was sent to pasture. He had a used Ramcharger for several years that he adored, and when it died he bought a little second-hand British car. He had it about two months, got rear-ended a few blocks from home, left it where it was and walked in the door saying he'd always hated it anyway.

My father's dedication to AMC clouded his judgment at times. It took him years to admit there were other good cars out there. But loyal fans who stick with a team through good times and bad, eventually realize that it's not always about the fans, nor the players. Vision comes from management that respects this; you can't blame consumers and workers for everything.

"Maybe next year" only works in sports.

Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Saturday in Wheels and Mondays in Living.

www.lorraineonline.ca

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