Typing 2 Ink - by Jim Bryant
Chapter One: How I Got Here and Hooked

In the Summer of Love, 1967, I wasn't keeping track of what when on in Wolfsburg.  It was my Summer of Wheels.  I turned 16, got my license, and my father bought me wheels, just two of them, but wheels.  I'd learned to drive in our 1965 Karmann Ghia convertible, but most of my time was spent on my new Honda SS125.  I named it Jean M. meaning "Just Enough And No More."  I was never a speed freak.  Acceleration was for the macho group.  You know the type--throbbing power plant between the thighs folk.  That Honda got me where I wanted to go, and I enjoyed the getting there as much as the arriving.

Enter 1972.  Nixon's screwing McGovern, the Vietnamese and any Amerikan under the age of 30.  Five years of two-wheeling, getting the family car when I could, suited me just fine but it was time to make a statement.  What better way than with a VW bus?  Vehicles don't make a political statement any more.  Our loss.  Anyway, the Northern Illinois winters were taking a toll on my extremities and love life.  You try motorcycling all winter long and tell me your hands, knees and other appendages don't suffer a bit.

The ad said it could be a camper.  What that meant was the middle seat was missing.  But for $800 I now had a dove blue 1965 Kombi with four wheels and something VW called a heater.  Looking back at their ads of the time, VW never claimed more than "takes the chill off" but, hey, it had a windshield, doors, floors, and even that tiny ashtray on the dash.  Smoking, too, made a political statement in 1972, now it's just politically incorrect.

Though I couldn't haul ass, I could haul my Honda, my friends, my music, and my latest girl.  Her brother had a 1967 Deluxe.  European delivery, Pearl White over Velvet Green, nine-seater with sunroof and 21 windows.  I told him if he ever wanted to sell it to call me first.  When the girl married her childhood sweetheart, I lost her and my connection to the beautiful 1967 Deluxe.

I had named my Kombi Blueberry.  The previous owner had painted over some bad spots in the roof with silver stars--very cosmic.  I was hooked.  By September she sported an amateur paint job and an IMPEACH NIXON sticker in the rear window.  In the winter I'd throw a poncho over my head, the seat, and the steering wheel to keep in as much heat as possible.  I sure didn't need to look at the speedometer.  The speed limits were still 65 MPH.  Blueberry and I made several treks from Illinois to Georgia, moving a friend to the Land of Lincoln.  Those were the last good road miles.

In the spring of 1974 the transmission locked up.  I broke down and bought a 1968 Chevy van.  That Chevy is still with me, but it just wasn't the same.  Blueberry was towed to my apartment complex parking lot and became the summer home for several friends and pets.  Now we call them homeless but in 1974 they were just hippie friends.  It was a way of life.  On a warm summer day I could look out my window to see the side door of Blueberry opened up to let the sun shine on a guitar-playing friend.  Someone more mechanically inclined than I was finally offered me $50 for Blueberry and we parted ways.

The Chevy was not a VW but it was transportation (with heat) and in many ways it helped me gain a wife and two daughters.  By 1977 I was a husband, father and homeowner--and still keeping my eyes open for another split-window bus.  Enter fate.  A lineal time existence carries no guarantees that two lines, once parted, will meet again.  But one day there was a green and white split-window in a parking lot and I had to investigate.  Not only did it have a "FOR SALE" sign in the window, but I could tell by the license plate that it was the 1967 Deluxe which belonged to the brother of the ex-girlfriend.  He said it was rusty.  He said the paint was pealing off.  He said the heater boxes were shot.  When he said he wanted $300 for it, I gave him cash.  Little did he know how much more I would have paid.  His loss.  My gain.

I never gave it a name, and it spent a lot of time at the dealer waiting for delivery of transmission parts, but I loved it and even my wife seemed to be fond of the little green bus.  I patched some rust holes with sheet metal and replaced the heater boxes.  But time and salt had taken a toll and the bus needed either a total restoration or to be driven off a cliff.  The last official VW dealer service ticket had "UNFIT FOR HIGHWAY USE" written in big letters across it because rust had eaten through so many of the structural elements.  The Summer of Love had long passed, but a bit of that legacy could continue if only I could keep this bus alive.  And anyway, there are no cliffs around here.

I had no plan.  I had other transportation.  I had a garage.  I had some money.  And I had the will to do something.  So I enrolled in autobody courses at the local community college.  I learned some basic autobody techniques and how to use fillers and primers and soon found out that no matter how much I learned, it would take an act of God to save old green.  So I did the next best thing.  I bought a three-acre farmette with a barn I could use for a shop.  I even used the bus to help with the move, wondering all the while if it would split in two as I hauled tons of stuff from one place to the other.  The act of God turned out to be that it didn't split in half at 55 MPH, leaving a trail of my belongings on the road and me in wet pants.

I retired the '67 after the move in 1980.  I bought a '73 and eventually traded it for an '84 Vanagon which I still drive daily, but I'll save those stories for my friends in LiMBO.  It's 1993 and my '67 lives again.  Thirteen years after the retirement, it rolled out of the barn under its own power, (almost) fully restored but ready to represent VW's contribution to the Summer of Love.  I think after fifteen years I've finally even come up with a name, Potluck, since there's a bit of several busses rolled into one.