1965

Starting in the 1950’s Volkswagen began producing a line of cars that were decades ahead of the rest of the industry.  Now days those vehicles are known as mini-vans; but’ back then they were just called “Microbuses,” “Splitties” or “Transporters.”  The earliest model had a 25 horsepower engine and a gas heater.  Over the next decade my father owned three of those vans to accommodate his growing family.  I remember we went everywhere in them, even trips to Denver which took over 12 hours back then due to the mountain passes, poor roads and lack of horsepower. 

Rather than high back seats or head rests, the seats in these buses had big rubber handles with metal bars inside.  I used to play in the vans for hours even when they were parked in front of our house.  On one occasion I remember taking some rope out and plastic cups to play with.  I strung the rope from handle to handle and then hung the cups off.  I proceeded to pull on the rope like it was a chairlift.  I must have done this for hours not realizing the damage I was doing to the handles.  By the time I was finished there were rope marks all the way to the metal on every handle in sight.  The marks numbered in excess of a dozen.  Upon seeing what I had done, I knew it was only a matter of time before trouble would arrive in buckets.

It actually took a day or two before my damage was discovered and at this point I do not remember the punishment I faced but I am sure it was quick and severe.  We continued to own the bus for a couple more years, scars and all, until one fateful morning.  On that day my father went out to go to work and discovered that the bus was missing; it had been stolen.  My father was quick to report its disappearance and right or wrong we suspected it had something to do with the hippies who had been living in the park across the street for a number of years.

A couple of months went by with no word on the location of the bus.  We had figured it was gone for good.  Late one evening my father received a call from a good friend and mechanic who thought he may have seen the bus.  After the call my parents drove to Basalt to have a look.  Peering through a small window in a garage a few doors down from our friends they saw what looked like their bus.  It was hard to be sure as it had been completely repainted in a floral theme.  Flower power was big back then.  When the police went to check it out, it turned out to be none other than our missing bus.  The man who had the bus was arrested and the bus was turned over to our insurance company.

What makes this adventure mine?  Well, as it turns out, the final item used to identify the bus as belonging to my family was those marks I had made on the handles a few years earlier.