A father, a Son, and a Grand Prix

Randy Gearhart with his Pontiac Grand Prix on the day he graduated from Northern in 1968. He used to cruise through the Clio Road Arby's and the A & W. "I guess that a good many of the miles on this car were 'Clio Road Crusin’ Miles,'" he says.

Randy Gearhart may live in Georgia now, but he is definitely a “Flint guy.” He lived at 2314 Ohio Street, a few blocks from the A.C., before moving to 2913 Mallery Street, just off Ballenger. He went to Washington Elementary and Longfellow before graduating from Northern in 1968. He was home from college in the summer of 1969 working at A.M. Davison’s when he met his future wife, Debbi Reburn, across the street in the Carriage Room at Smith B’s. She worked the counter where he often went for lunch or a Tall Texan, more commonly known as a chocolate soda.
 
Even his name sounds like Flint.
 
Randy has a story to tell about his father and growing up in The Vehicle City. It was originally posted on Flint Expatriates on August 14, 2008.

My dad, Robert Gearhart, was superintendent of labor relations at Fisher Body Plant #2. In late November, 1964, he told me that I could pick out our family’s next car. It would be replacing our 1962 Chevrolet Impala.

Wow! Really? I had just turned 14 a couple months earlier. What a responsibility. What an honor.

I started looking through our most recent issues of Look and Life to see the new season’s offerings. Turning the magazine pages, I suddenly stopped. There she was. I had to look no further. The Pontiac Grand Prix.

The original magazine advertisement that caught Randy's eye.

I told dad that this was the car I wanted us to get. We got in our Applegate Chevy and rode over to Superior Pontiac/Cadillac on Dort Highway. Dad put in the order. A few weeks later, we got “the call” that our new car was ready for pick up.
One week after we took delivery of our new Grand Prix, on a gray December day, my dad suffered a heart attack. He died in the hall outside his office at Fisher Body.

He was only 40.

He had purchased an insurance policy that would pay off the car in case of his death. That was a good thing. But, that shiny, new, paid-off Pontiac became so much more than just a car to me. It was a connection to a man who loved his family and a dad who trusted a pimply-faced kid to make one of the most important purchase decisions a family can make.

The older I get, the more that act of trust means to me.

Thanks, Dad.

A Match Made in Flint

Randy Gearhart reflects on the romance of Flint...

I sometimes wonder how different my life would be today if I would have taken that job at Fisher Body Plant #2.

The year was 1969. I was home for the summer after my first year of classes at Michigan State. Although they weren’t doing much hiring at the time, I was able to get my foot in the door at the plant with the help of some of my dad’s co-workers. A job was mine if I wanted it. During orientation, however, I began to have second thoughts. When we took a break for lunch, I told GM, “thanks for the opportunity,” but I felt I needed to look for employment elsewhere.

I heard that A.M. Davison might be hiring, so I headed downtown to check things out. Well, they were—and they hired me. My job was selling suits, shirts, and ties on the second floor of the upscale men’s clothing store. Little did I realize, however, that I had not only found myself a summer job, but I was about to find a wife, also.

Most of the time, I brought my lunch to work with me. But on the days I wasn’t brown-bagging, I would walk across the street to eat at the Carriage Room at Smith-Bridgman’s Department Store. The Carriage Room was located on the mezzanine—sandwiched between the store’s first and second floors. The place had an atmosphere all its own. It had a low ceiling and was lighter and brighter toward the front—where the windows stretched from the street upward—but got progressively darker toward the back of the long, narrow room. The place was almost always filled with people and noise—lots of noise. The conversation, the clatter of plates, ringing of glasses, and the chink of silverware was non-stop. Lunchtime at the Carriage Room was a study in controlled chaos. Move ‘em in, serve ‘em up, and move ‘em out—somebody was likely waiting for your seat.

The Carriage Room counter is where I met “that girl,” Debra Reburn. Debbi was a student at Ainsworth High School and was working as a waitress over summer break. Call it fate, fortune, or “the hand of the Lord”—whatever it was, our Carriage Room encounter changed the course of two lives forever. We were married June 24, 1972, at Bethany United Presbyterian Church—the eastside church I attended while growing up.

This year will mark the 37th anniversary of the Gearhart/Reburn union. We have four wonderful children—three boys and a girl—five granddaughters, and, appearing soon, our first grandson, Kyle Christopher.

In celebration of our 25th wedding anniversary, my sister, Nancy, gave us the silver heart you see above. Those little store labels were carefully clipped from my late Uncle Ben’s ties. Today, they serve as a reminder of where our love and life together began—in the heart of a city called, “ Flint .”

(Oh, in case you wondered, I’m really, really glad I didn’t take that job at Fisher #2.)