Classic car enthusiast's life 'not bad for a guy from Buffalo'
A force and a character, my father-in-law, Paul TerHorst, died Friday at age 85, with Daughter No. 1 (Cheryl) and Daughter No. 2 (Karen) holding his hands while Daughter No. 3 (Laurie) shared his last hours via FaceTime from her home in Colorado.
One of the first things I realized about Paul, back in 1984 when I started dating Daughter No. 1, was how much he loved and supported his daughters. He might not have voted as they did, and he might have laughed at sexist jokes about women drivers and such, but he and his late wife, Jean, a lifelong elementary schoolteacher in Buffalo Grove, produced three daughters who are smart, independent and kind.
Paul kept photos of those women in his life and of his seven grandchildren in his wallet, which was thicker than the phone book of his hometown of Buffalo, New York. He collected classic cars and dedicated a majority of the plastic sleeves in his wallet to those machines that were a huge part of his life. He also collected friends, and his office walls were covered with their business cards and phone numbers.
As founder of the Packards of Chicagoland club, editor of automobile newsletters, and a member of the Greater Illinois Region Classic Car Club of America, Antique Automobile Club of America and other clubs, Paul had an unbridled passion for those stylish cars from the 1930s and the 1940s. “Yours for longer hoods” was how he closed his letters. He often joked that after he was born, “They broke the mold.”
Paul knew whom to call when someone needed a taillight for a 1931 Packard, a ragtop for a 1936 Auburn or even a hood ornament for a 1939 Rolls-Royce. He was a regular at swap meets from Chickasha, Oklahoma, to Hershey, Pennsylvania, where he'd talk a guy selling a box of old parts for $60 down to $40, and then pluck out the one valuable item in that collection and sell it to a guy across the aisle for $250. Daughter No. 3 made sure to plan her wedding around his annual pilgrimage to Hershey.
A child of the Depression, Paul never let anything go to waste. When he moved from the family home in Buffalo Grove to a property in rural Lake County, he built two huge sheds (he called them barns) where he stored his cars, friends' cars, and a plethora of parts for projects that might go on for years. Paul, who started as a driver's education teacher and spent most of his working career as a compliance officer with the Illinois State Board of Education, was the subject of articles in the Daily Herald, the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Sun-Times and countless magazines dedicated to classic cars. His magnificent 1935 Auburn roadster, with the rumble seat where his grandchildren loved to sit, was a staple at the annual Father's Day Classic Car Show at Oakbrook Center, the Long Grove Strawberry Fest, and the Auburn Cord Duesenberg Festival in Auburn, Indiana.
A social guy who loved parties, Paul could spin a story about every car he ever owned, with histories and explanations of why it had a “straight 8,” “suicide doors” or some other feature that made them “classy” and unique, unlike the cookie-cutter cars of today.
In 1966, he bought a 1937 Packard convertible that he named “The General” because it once belonged to Gen. George S. Patton. When it suffered extensive damage after snow collapsed the roof of a Rolling Meadows facility where it was stored, his daughters remember seeing tears in their dad's eyes.
He famously growled “Murphy's Law” to explain misfortune. But he never lost his optimism. While pulling a Buick from the ditch onto a flatbed truck, he practically howled with the story of the time he neglected to anchor a car because he was towing it only a short distance, and it rolled off the truck when a “turkey” cut him off. After telling that tale of misery, he said not to bother anchoring the Buick because we were going only a short distance.
Paul did things his way and could be stubborn. As a teenager, he and a couple of buddies committed themselves to playing basketball outside every day for a year, even when it meant they had to clear 2 feet of snow. But he was always there to help family and friends.
His intentions, even when they missed the mark, were good. Labeling me a “jock” because I used to play sports, went to Cubs games and knew who was playing in the Super Bowl, Paul excitedly presented me with an Orlando Magic commemorative license plate he'd picked up at a swap meet.
He loved his wife, his daughters, his grandkids, his vast assortment of friends, and his cars. He lived life to the fullest. And although he never did write his autobiography, he lived up to his title: “Not Bad for a Guy from Buffalo.”