Do you remember when the make of cars was easily identifiable? When even folks who were not interested in cars could recognize the brands? For example, who could forget the 1950s Buicks with their moustache-like grills and oval holes in the hoods or the iconic Cadillac fins or the needle nosed is-it-coming-or-going Studebaker?

My father, Gene McLaughlin, told me that as a kid in the1920s, he could lie under a tree with his eyes closed tight and identify the make of each passing car just by the sound of its engine. Try doing that now.

This week I want to solicit your help. Please look at the photo of this car and tell me if you can identify the make and the year. I honestly don’t know. Nonetheless, I do have a story about it. At least I think it’s this car, but then you’ll let me know. (pggyknr@yahoo.com)

Wallace McLaughlin, my grandfather, was enamored of cars. That is not to say he fiddled with engines for he would not have allowed grease on his immaculate grocer’s hands. Notwithstanding, he had a lifetime love affair with automobiles. Interestingly, he claimed genuine fame when he purchased the first inflatable inner tube tires in southern Minnesota. Can anyone tell from the photo if this car has that sort of tires?

Grandpa’s home on South Main Street had a garage in which he stored his car, but word soon got out about his newfangled tires. People began knocking on the front door asking if they could see them. At first this pleased Grandpa, but when the visits turned into streams of curious people, it became too much. From then on Grandpa parked his car out on the street in front of his house where folks could examine the tires to their heart’s content. Imagine inner tube tires causing such a commotion!

There was another love in Wallace McLaughlin’s life: show horses. He had two, Fancy Sue and Goldie. I can still hear him saying to them, “Now you know I’m an old man and I can’t get up like I used to.” With that both horses would instantly kneel down to his level, making them easy for Grandpa to mount.

A couple weeks ago I had the good fortune to meet Austin’s famous story teller, Mike Cotter. He delighted me by saying he well remembered Grandpa’s horses because of their stunning beauty. Nearly eight decades later, he still remembers their names! There is a reason his memory is so clear. When he was a child, a comely widow lived on the farm next to his. From across his field, Mike would see Wallace, who by then was himself a comely widower, drive his horse and buggy over to court her. But, what was even more thrilling was when Wallace would occasionally come by in his sulky, a handsome rig he often raced at the fairgrounds.

In winter I recall with great fondness that the buggy was replaced with a sleigh. It looked as if it had stepped right out of a Hollywood Dr. Zhivago set. After a fresh snowfall, Grandpa would come to our home and take us four young McLaughlin kids for rides with either Fancy Sue or Goldie in the reins. It was a rare and wonderful sight on Austin’s North Tenth Street. On the leather seats were thick real fur (no faux anything in those days!) blankets which kept us warm in the frigid weather. Attached to the horse’s bridle were tinkling bells which my memory can still hear. I believe even Santa was envious!

As I said Grandpa became a widower. In 1933, his wife, Anna, was rushed to the hospital with appendicitis. A successful surgery ensued. The doctor assured Grandpa all was well and suggested he return to work. So, Grandpa walked the short distance from St. Olaf Hospital (now Mayo) to the Square Deal (now Twice is Nice). As he stepped into the store, the phone was ringing. It was the doctor saying Anna had died.

For the next 10 years, Wallace remained a bachelor dating most of the eligible women in town. He was quite a catch — a successful businessman and a country gentleman who in addition to his Austin home, also owned three farms. Lots of eager and available women hung around the Square Deal Grocery hoping-beyond-hope to catch his eye. Then in 1943, he married again. I remember it well. Well, actually not the wedding as much as the following day. I was a kindergartner at Sumner School. My classmates asked me why I hadn’t been in school the day before. I told them I had gone to my grandpa’s wedding. “That’s impossible!” they all cried. “Liar, liar pants on fire! A five-year-old kid can’t go to her grandpa’s wedding!”

Try as I might, nothing I said convinced them of its truth. I cried all the way home.