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The book is currently out-of-print, but used copies have been advertised on: Note: These advertised prices are well above the published list price of $12.95 indicating the book is becoming (is) a cult/collector item. HOWEVER, SOME NEW COPIES REMAIN available from the author's personal and very limited inventory. To check supply and to order an AUTOGRAPHED copy, please click on HOME (above) and then click on "Contact Chuck Klein"
Special Link: The THE KEYNOTES, an early rock & roll band (some members of which, and incidents, are noted in Circa 1957) has reformed and will be offering sounds of the era in late 2006.
CLASS: Commercial Fiction.
ISBN: 09627184-0-8
LENGTH: 261 pages;
105K words
PUBLISHER and YEAR: Patriot Press, © 1990.
OUTLINE: This historically and technically
correct, coming-of-age novel is set during the birth of the rock
& roll and hot rodding era. There are descriptions of the
building of a race car, racing (legal & otherwise), juvenile
sexual encounters, high school life, death and many events with
which anyone who has ever been an American teenager will
identify. The novel has been made required reading in at least
one major university's Post World War II history classes.
OPENING LINES: Pinned back against the plastic seat covers, I could just barely see the speedometer from behind the huge tach that was clamped to the steering column; ninety, ninety-five, wham! He slammed the shift lever into third and still the force of acceleration kept me prisoner of the seat back.
AUTHORS COMMENT:
"I was determined to accurately record this time
period [for some of us], in novelized form. I did not want to
produce another whitewash of the time span such as 'PEGGY SUE
GOT MARRIED' or 'AMERICAN GRAFFITI.' The latter,
though set in 1962, pictured only fifties vehicles and music. It
was certainly amusing but it didn't depict the kids of the
fifties, the generation of true pioneers of hot rods and rock
& roll. By 1960, the time when CIRCA 1957 ends, rock &
roll had lost its punch and would remain lackluster until the
arrival of the Beatles in 1964. Hot rodding, as the innovators of
the 1950s lived it, was also passé by the turn of the decade. No
longer was it possible to win a race just because you could do a
better tune-up than the other guy. The sixties marked the
beginning of the modern and still current,
who-ever-has-the-most-money-wins-the-race, era.
"Though classified as a novel, the book is autobiographical. It didn't start out that way, it's just that I couldn't make up better stuff than what really happened."
SELECTED REVIEWS:
OBSERVATIONS:"CIRCA 1957 is a true-to-life story of a young man growing up during the days when all young men were enthralled by cars, racing and rock & roll." HOT LINE NEWS, July 2002.
"Perhaps the best compliment for any novel is that it's worth the time and effort to read...a slice of the past brought to the present...all of the proper settings of the times." OLD CAR NEWS.
"Klein has done his homework well as he has really captured the feeling of the era."STREETSCENE.
"Captures the true flavors of adolescence in the late '50s. Kudos to the author ." CAR COLLECTOR MAGAZINE.
"A souped-up, piston-pounding, tire-squealin' honey of an American epic. Grabs you by the gearshift and won't let go for 260 pages" THE CINCINNATI POST
"Good walk down memory lane. If you were a teenager in the fifties...you'll sefinitly see yourself and your friends." AUTOMOBILIA NEWS
"It's a book that will make you laugh and cry and remember...." STREET ROD ACTION
Yeah, we were there
in the beginning,
singing, dancing and spinning,
driving, racing and winning.
To make those days our own,
to make our mark, to set us apart,
then suddenly we were grown.
In the beginning was
Elvis and Smokey
the Everly's, Richie and Fats.
Four-on-the-floor or three-on-the-tree
and DARLING COME SOFTLY TO ME.
The Drifters, The
Platters, Diana and the girls,
who sang the songs of our soul.
Pony tails and fender skirts and
BABY LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL.
Ricky Nelson and Jackie Wilson, Little Richard and Jerry Lee,
Hootenannies and SHORT FAT FANNIE
and OH, OH TRAGEDY.
THE STROLL and THE
STOMP
and AT THE HOP,
TWISTIN' THE NIGHT AWAY,
South Philly and Bo Diddley,
rock and roll was here to stay.
Do you remember GOOD
GOLLY MISS MOLLY,
Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly,
Big Bopper and Ben E. King
and LOVE IS A MANY SPLENDORED THING.
Three-twos and
spinner caps, drive-ins and glass packs,
James Dean and YAKETY-YAK and a screamin' tenor sax.
In the beginning those times were ours the words, the music,
the clothes and the cars, hot rods and puppy love
and guardian angels up above.
There's not been a time as close to heaven.......as CIRCA 1957.
Copyright 1990 Patty Klein
******************************************************
SAMPLE CHAPTER
CHAPTER 14 (copyright 1990, Chuck Klein)
March brought Spring, my seventeenth birthday and more good news, sort of. With the coming of the grass growing season I was informed by my father that I would be expected to take charge of all outdoor maintenance. It seems that old Bill Schatzel, the Company's gardener, had suffered a heart attack during the past winter and would no longer be able to do the work. Previously, I had been paid the exorbitant, to hear my father tell it, rate of seventy-five cents per hour for any work done in helping Bill cut grass at the Plant. I wasn't paid for cutting grass at home since that was part of my chores, for which I received an allowance. Now I had the old man over a barrel. I demanded, and got, the manly sum of $1.25 per hour! This was no small job as the factory was situated on twelve acres of land, half of which was lawn and half was rough field that had to be cut with the farm tractor. The residence was only about two acres of lawn, but required a lot of trimming especially around the pool. Both locations had many bushes and hedges that had to be shaped regularly. This was my first chance to really make some money, but I didn't know what to do with this new found wealth, so I just decided to save it and see what happens. However, I did visit Auggie at the Auto Shack and purchased a chrome air cleaner for the '56 with some of my birthday money, just so it wouldn't be entirely stock. I mean even BB had a racing air cleaner on the old '35! I could have bought spinner hub caps, but I figured by now the red and white Ford was well known by friends and the police alike. Not only had my identity been well established by my cars, but I had been recognized by some of my peers as a man who knew how to handle the wheel.
My first realization of this reputation became evident when Howard Richards, a fellow frat brother, called upon me to show him how to take corners. He had just gotten his first car, a 1953 Dodge sedan, and stopped by the house after school with his request. Hard, as he was nick-named by some of the hillbillies he worked with at his after school gas station job (because that's the way they pronounced Howard), was a genuine nice guy. He was short, a little pudgy and had an impish look about him that induced chick's mothering instincts. He never had trouble finding a date, but getting past first base was his biggest problem. He reminded me a little of Willie.
After a short inspection of his set of wheels--he had already taken the hood and trunk ornaments off in preparation for a future nose and deck job--we went for a drive. I pulled the rather awkward handling tub onto Fair Oaks Drive and immediately reached about forty-five after a speed shift to second. Approaching the corner in front of the mail boxes I put the right front tire on the edge of the berm, gave the steering wheel a sharp tug and poured the coal to her. The big sedan didn't exactly go into a four-wheel drift, but it did slide enough to end up placing us perfectly right in front of the stop sign. We drove through a few other side streets as I explained and demonstrated the basics of car handling while my student hung on to the arm rest. The whole thing didn't take more than half an hour because he had to go to work. Even though I didn't have the opportunity to watch him drive, he assured me that he understood the principles and would be back another time, after he had a chance to practice.
It wasn't fifteen minutes after he left that Mom called to me that Howard was here. I hadn't heard him drive up, but there he was, standing at the front door, his car no where in sight.
Hard walked into the room, white as a sheet, with a big gash on his forehead and collapsed on the bed.
"Hey man, what happened? Where's your car?" I asked, totally bewildered.
"Well, it sorta went off the road."
"What do you mean, sorta? Where is it and what happened to your head?"
"Well, you know that big tree just past the mail boxes? It almost killed me. I was just trying to go around the corner like, like you did, and wham, the next thing I know I'm stuck in this tree," Hard moaned.
"Are you okay? Do you want my Mom to fix your head?"
"Naw. Let me rest here a minute and then maybe I can wash up and we can go look at the car."
"How bad is it? Do you think it will run? Should I get a chain and try to pull it out with the '56?" I asked, still firing questions at him.
"I don't know. Give me a minute and we'll go look at it."
As Hard finished cleaning up, a police car pulled into the driveway. We went out to see. It was the young officer, Tony Bloomfield.
"You fellows know anything about that Blue Dodge wrapped around the tree at Section?" The officer asked.
"Yes sir, it's my friend's," I said, motioning toward Howard.
"Figures. I didn't think I'd have to look very far. We had a report of a similar vehicle racing through the Village about an hour ago. You guys wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
"No, wasn't us." Hard smiled.
Hard drove down with the cop and I followed in the '56. The Blue bomb was a total. He'd hit the tree head on and wiped out the entire front end and his life savings in a single instant. But, it really wasn't as bad as all that. The gas station he worked for sent their tow truck at no charge, and Hard did have insurance.
As the weather got better, the grass grew and I was now spending all my non-school hours cutting. Even when it rained, I had to use that time to clean and repair the equipment. I was sure socking away the scratch, but I didn't have any time to spend it.
At the rate it was piling up, by the end of the summer, I would have three maybe four hundred in cash. My dreams of what to do with the money bounced from dropping a bigger engine in the Crosley to customizing the '56 or taking a trip somewhere. That was my problem. I never knew what I wanted to do.
It seemed that some guys knew what they were going to do for the rest of their life, from the minute they were born. They had their whole life planned out. Some of the frat brothers knew what college they were going to, what they were going to study, who they wanted to work for, where they wanted to live and even who they were going to marry. I didn't know whether I envied them, resented them, or felt sorry for them. At least whatever life brought me would be a surprise. Jimmy was like that. He knew that all he had to do was get passing grades in school, take the easiest classes at Ohio State, where he wanted to go, and upon graduation he would marry a Jewish girl, even though he dated a lot of shiksas, have a couple of kids, join the country club and live in Amberley Village. He had even known what fraternity he wanted when he was in the seventh grade.
In the seventh grade I didn't know whether to shit or go blind. I was glad that I was only seventeen, and had plenty of time to decide what I wanted to do. I knew I could go to college, just as Bobbi had done, or I could go to work for the Company. My father had always told me that someday the Company would be mine, but that didn't really excite me when I thought how he worked a seven day week. He never did anything for fun, and I sure as hell didn't want to get into a rut like that. Whenever my mother would complain that he wasn't spending enough time with her and the family, he would whine about how hard he works so we can enjoy the finer things of life. He always left the impression that if he didn't go to work everyday, the whole thing would come down around us and he'd be driven to the "poor house." I didn't really believe him, but I didn't give a shit either. Mom always said that his work was his hobby, and that's all he wanted to do. I guess it would be neat to get paid for working at your hobby, but I couldn't see me doing it all the time. I mean even if somebody paid me to build and race cars, I don't think I could do it seven days a week forever. Maybe my old man was tired of what he did, but didn't know what else he could do. I doubted it, but what did I know.
During the next Knights meeting I learned that a custom car show was going to be held in Columbus on the upcoming weekend. I mentioned this to Hard and Jimmy in school the next day, and Jimmy picked up on the idea right away, saying that his cousin had been after him to come up for a visit. It seems that she and some of her girl friends were going to have a slumber party at one of the girls' houses in Bexley, Saturday night. It sounded perfect. We agreed to leave around seven in the evening because all of us had to work that day. The plan was that we'd go directly to the house where the party was to be, which Jimmy promised to call and get directions to, and stay the night telling the girls we didn't have any money for a hotel. Then, Sunday morning we would take in the car show and be home in time for dinner.
Friday the rumor went around Woodward that Ivan Kaplan and some of his Sigma's had cut school yesterday and had made it to Columbus in two hours flat. I found Ivan on the ramp during lunch.
"Hey Kaplan, I heard you made a rather quick trip yesterday."
"Yeah , the ole Chevy was running fine. Why? You thinking of trying to beat the time?" He asked with a cock-sure smile.
"Oh no. I don't think I could match your skill. But, just for the record, where did you time it from and to?"
"We left here at eight a.m. and pulled to the stop at High and Broad at exactly ten in the morning."
"What were you guys doing up there anyway, and did you see any cops on the way?" I asked, trying to collect information.
"The only cop we saw was in Washington Court House, but he had his hood up in a gas station as we rolled through. We did get awful lucky though. For some reason there just wasn't any traffic."
"What'd you do, go up to visit some of the guys at Ohio State?"
"Yeah, we checked out Blinky's new frat house, and man, was it ever cool."
I didn't think he was lying. A hundred and ten miles in a hundred and twenty minutes wasn't unrealistic. Maybe we could better the mark. He already held the record to Dayton, so I was determined to at least give him a little competition.
Saturday I finished cutting the grass I hadn't gotten to Friday after school and even found time to install a new set of plugs in the '56 before ringing out for the day. I figured that since the old man owned the car, the least he could do is pay for the time to put the plugs in. Somehow, I forgot to tell him. Just as I got home, George stopped by in his "new" '51 chev that he was planning to chop the top on.
"Hey, Baker, you still driving without a license?" I asked.
"Naw man, didn't you hear?" The stupid judge mailed my license back to me. Can you beat that?"
"No shit! That'd been me they'd have come up here and got me and I'd still be in the slammer. Did you ever tell your old man?"
"Are you crazy, man? Fuck no, I didn't tell him., He'd have killed me dead!" George exclaimed.
"You lucky bastard. You never had to pay any scratch either did ya?"
"Not a damn nickel. Anyway, why I stopped over is to see if you wanted to toss a few cold ones down tonight? I've got a hungering for some Hudey."
I gave George my regrets, explaining the Columbus trip, which was now only an hour away. But we did agree to go together to the strip for the opening meet, which was scheduled for Sunday-a-week.
After a quick shower and the performance of my now twice weekly ritual of shaving, I slipped into my Harry-high-school clothes and splashed on a little Old Spice. The chicks in Bexley might not dig Levis and a T-shirt, so I wanted to look sharp. At dinner, I told Mom and Dad that I wouldn't be home until tomorrow because Jimmy's cousin had insisted that we spend the night with her family. Their only comment was to be careful. Yeah sure, did they think I would take foolish chances?
The clock on the Roselawn Center Building showed seven-ten as we, Hard riding shotgun and Jimmy in the back to watch for cops, headed north. Traffic was light as we sped out State Route three, weaving in and out of the few cars that got in our way. Luck was with us as we hit the first stretch of two lane highway just outside of Montgomery. A long line of cars was ahead of us, but nothing was coming the other way as I pulled over the center line flooring the gas pedal. Locking the Ford-o-matic in passing gear I shouted, "Pick a number from one to ten."
Jimmy yelled back, "Nine."
"Count 'em," I said, as we started to pass them all.
We got to eight before we had to duck back in behind the lead car, an old Studebaker. When the path was once again clear we shot around the Studebaker and leveled off at ninety. The Ford was running like a charm. Hard was invaluable in knowing when to pass on the right in the little towns that we roared through. He seemed to sense the power of the little V8 in relation to the allotted passing space. Our luck was still holding. We had only caught two stop lights so far and hadn't even seen a cop. It was just getting dark when we came out of Washington Court House and hit the long straight, flat stretches that were the last leg. Traffic was still very light and I held the car at ninety for miles on end, not even having to slow in order to pass what cars got in our path. All except one.
For the longest time there was a set of tail lights that we were barely gaining on. Maybe it was a State Cop, trying to clock us from the front. Too late now. We pressed on. A few miles out of Grove City we caught him. It was a '58 Plymouth Fury that had slowed down to see if we were the law, I guessed. When he slowed I tried to pass. No way. Within a mile we were nose to tail at a hundred and fifteen! The most the '56 had ever done before was about one-oh-seven, but riding the slipstream of the Fury we could go as fast as he could without even having to hold the gas pedal to the floor. But every time we tried to pass and hit the full force of the wind, even at full throttle, the little Ford would slow down and then we'd have to fight to get back in the slipstream. It was like this all the way to Grove City, where the Plymouth turned off with a wave of the hand. Now it was the home stretch. We hit High Street and Hard noted the time at eight fifty- two, but we still had a few miles to Broad Street, the center of town. Traffic picked up and we caught a few lights. It seemed agonizingly slow after the high speed we had been used to. Finally, Broad was in sight: Time--nine o'clock sharp! one hundred and ten miles 110 minutes!! Let 'em try an beat that! We were all ecstatic and a little relieved too. Being part of history was worth every risk and cold sweat that went with it.
The dangers in this type of driving never seemed to be as great as they probably were. It's not that we weren't afraid of dying, but that we really didn't believe we could be killed. Oh sure, we'd all read about other teenagers killed in auto accidents, and the police and our parents always preached to us about how dangerous it was to drive fast, but we never actually knew anyone who was killed in a car wreck. Even some of the books we read gave the illusion that fast driving would be rewarded, such as in Henry Gregor Felson's Hot Rod. The teenage hero of that book builds and races his car on the streets only to be caught and punished. Never mind that. The real message that comes across is when the local cop, who knows the hero is a better driver, turns the wheel of his scout car over to the kid for a high speed mercy run to a distant hospital. It would never happen in real life, but that didn't stop us from fantasizing about it. Even teenagers had a little bit of Walter Mitty in them. Besides, the modern State highways, with their wide, two lane, smoothly paved surface and generous gravel shoulders were far safer that what our parents generation had driven on.
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