I think of time capsules as buried in the massy foundations of huge buildings, to be opened at the end of time by a bunch of radioactive baboons who have finally developed opposable thumbs.

But the good citizens of Tulsa, Oklahoma, had decidedly more mundane objectives when they set up a time capsule in 1957. It was to be opened in 2007, to honour the city’s centenary. At the time, various citizens guessed the 2007 population of Tulsa on postcards, which were transferred to microfilm and left in the capsule. The person with the closest estimate, or a descendent, would win the contents of the capsule.

So what did they wall up in the chamber? Among other things, some ten gallons of leaded gasoline, a case of Schlitz, a 48-star American Flag, letters from various state and city officials and documentation for a savings account valued at $100. The big prize, though, was an object which was

“”an advanced product of American industrial ingenuity with the kind of lasting appeal that will still be in style 50 years from now.”

This -

A pristine gold Plymouth Belvedere -

“a two-tone, gold-and-white behemoth [which] sported white-wall tires, a V-8 engine and high tail fins trimmed in chrome.”

Inside the carwas

“the contents of a typical woman’s handbag placed in the glove compartment: 14 bobby pins, a bottle of tranquilizers, a lipstick, a pack of gum, tissues, a pack of cigarettes, matches and $2.43.”

As the ads said, you will think it is 1960.

Before it was buried, the car was test driven around the local fairgrounds by Jim Doyle, who did the honours because it resembled his parent’s ‘55 Plymouth, and he could operate the in-dash gear lever. He was fifteen years and one month old.

You can imagine the good citizens of Tulsa, their population estimates in an envelope on the mantlepiece, or passed on to the oldest child, watching year by year as the town grew, and withered, or soared beyond their magic number. Watching their neighbours, wondering whose grandparents guessed the closest as the fifty years passed. Perhaps hoping for an explosion in fertility or some savage economic collapse.

Coming together, much older now, perhaps a little infirm to enjoy the car, supported by their eager descendents, as the big machines dug into the lawn of the Tulsa Courthouse, to uncover the chamber. A local company even practiced moving the car, using an identical vehicle from a museum -

Hundreds of people gathered to watch the car’s resurrection, some staking out their positions in the rain before dawn.

“With a press corps from around the world, television reporters gave breathless play-by-plays in German, French and Spanish.

And the crowd — including apparently dozens of people who were there for the car’s burial in 1957 — erupted into applause as the old Belvedere rose gently into view at 12:02 p.m.

By 12:09, the car was resting safely on a trailer and the excited crowd swarmed around it, forcing sheriff’s deputies to corral people back into the bleachers so officials could finish the ceremonies.

“It looks good to me,” remarked Jeremey Mahon, who was a 9-year-old Tulsa boy when he watched the car being buried 50 years ago. He returned from his current home in Texas to watch the excavation.

“I remember thinking back then that if I was still around I had to be here when they dug it up. I had friends who weren’t so lucky, but here I am.”

Still wrapped in the plastic tarps that covered it for five decades, the car’s shape was clearly recognizable as it came out of the ground. Before setting it down, the crane turned the car 360 degrees, revealing a few rusty-looking spots where the plastic had torn away.

Wiping away a tear after the Belvedere was taken away, Sheryl Forrest told reporters the celebration was tinged with sadness.

“It’s been here all these years,” said Forrest, who was a young girl sitting on the Belvedere’s hood in a well-known photo from 1957. “And now it’s over.”

There was some trepidation – while the car was a masterpiece of styling that pointed firmly to the future and awed contemporary writers, it turned out to be a mechanical dog. According to auto historical Jim Benjamin -

“” the ‘57 Plymouths “leaked dust and rain water like a sieve, paint faded and flaked off in chunks and upholstery materials disintegrated in the sunlight.”

He said in the recent interview: “They were kind of rushed into production and there wasn’t much quality control. They rusted away within two or three years, and that was something that came back to haunt Chrysler for years after.”

The opening was a huge event, covered in a gala party for television, with a large screen showing the Belve removed from the crypt, washed of its “Cosmoline” grease cover and five layers of plastic, and shown to an excited, car-crazy nation.

The vault had been designed to withstand a nuclear attack. Unfortunately, it contained four feet of standing water, which once totally covered the car.

The vehicle is a hulk, with the engine just a mass of rust and the key decayed in the lock.

The glove box contains nothing but a mass of decaying leather. The savings account is worth all of a thousand dollars. But the flag, short two states, is in perfect condition.

C’est la vie.

This entry was posted on Saturday, June 16th, 2007 at 11:55 pm and is filed under history, strangely compelling. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.