In 1942, my 21-year-old cousin was working on the assembly line at the Ford Rouge plant while waiting for the Selective Service folks to assign him to his next job, which was driving a tank across southern Europe for the U.S. Seventh Army.
During his days at the Rouge, he saved his money and bought a dream car - a year-old Buick Roadmaster coupe, blue body, gray top.
It was a beauty, and he drove it everywhere, except to work. He told me why: "If Harry Bennett's thugs had found a Roadmaster in the employee parking lot, they would have slashed the tires and smashed the windows. Then, they'd have found out who owned the car, and I would have had a pink slip in my next pay envelope."
Henry Ford employed Bennett and his goons to keep the UAW at bay in the 1930s.
Buicks were the only cars I knew during my early life. My dad loved them and had several of them, the last one being a blue 1936 sedan. He bought it with his veteran's bonus from the state of Michigan for his Navy service during World War I. It was the first Buick designed by Harley Earl.
Dad traded it for a Chevrolet at just about the time I started to drive. I don't know whether the two events were related.