Harry Truman's Excellent Adventure - Matthew Algeo [14]
Harry Truman loved cars. Here he is behind the wheel of a 1946 Ford, one of the first models produced after the war ended. In the passenger’s seat is Henry Ford II.
It certainly didn’t handle like the Toyota Corolla I’d rented for the drive out to Alan’s place. The New Yorker had power steering, but when I moved the wheel, it seemed to take the car a moment or two to respond. This, apparently, was another one of the innovations they didn’t get quite right in 1953. It was especially disconcerting when oncoming vehicles approached, but Alan was unfazed. “It’s a little iffy to steer,” he said a bit too nonchalantly. “That’s just one of the things you’ve gotta get used to.”
Alan said he likes to take the car to shows, but admitted that Chrysler collectors can be “oddballs.” “We’re a little more quirky,” he explained. “You go to a show, you can see loads of General Motors cars and loads of Ford cars, but there’s just not nearly as many Chryslers out there, particularly of this era.” Chrysler collectors, he speculated, “go for the underdog.”
I was greatly relieved when I safely pulled the big car into his driveway. Inside his house, Alan showed me an issue of Consumer Reports from 1953. Of the New Yorker, the magazine said, “The steering is precise.”
Steering issues notwithstanding, Harry Truman loved his New Yorker. With its wire wheels, whitewall tires, and gleaming chrome trim—not to mention its famous driver—the big black sedan soon became the most recognizable vehicle in Independence, a distinction that made Truman proud. As he tootled around town, running errands with Bess or just taking it out for a spin, passing motorists would honk and wave, bringing that famous toothy smile to the ex-president’s face.
Harry cared for the New Yorker the same way he cared for all his cars: with a meticulousness that bordered on the compulsive. He had the oil changed every thousand miles. He had it washed and vacuumed every few days. He habitually inspected the tires, measuring the tread and air pressure. He religiously recorded every gasoline purchase on a small card he kept inside the glove compartment, so he could calculate fuel mileage.
“He was very particular about his cars,” was how Margaret put it.
In early May, buried in the avalanche of mail that Truman received was a letter that especially caught his attention. It was an invitation from the Reserve Officers Association to address the group’s convention in Philadelphia on June 26. Founded after World War I, the organization not only represented the interests of officers in the military reserves, it also advocated “the development and execution of a military policy for the United States that will provide adequate national security.” Truman, a former reserve officer himself, had helped found the association. Attending the convention would give him a chance to catch up with some old friends. It would also give him a chance to speak his mind.
Since leaving the White House, Truman had remained conspicuously mum when it came to the new administration in Washington. “I’m not going to do or say anything to embarrass the man in the White House,” he told one interviewer. “I know exactly what he’s up against.” Privately, though, he was seething. Before leaving office, Truman had proposed a defense budget of forty-one billion dollars. Eisenhower had proposed slashing that by 12 percent—about five billion dollars. The Republicans believed the reduction was necessary to offset proposed tax cuts. Besides, their thinking went, who needs a big army when you’ve got nuclear weapons? Many Republicans believed atomic bombs alone were enough to deter the Soviets. Eisenhower