Lee Norbert Coonen

Lee was a gentle man. Lee was a gentleman. Lee lead his family with kindness and thoughtfulness. This is the Lee we love. But in 1964, in the streets of Detroit, Lee and I were gunrunners and manufacturers of illegal (and inert) arms. As nine and ten year olds our primary industry was building cars. Our Big Three were AMT, Revell, and Monogram. But money was tight, shoveling snow and mowing neighbors' lawns was not bringing in enough revenue to satiate our need to keep the assembly line and paint and decal shops humming along. We needed parts, we needed polyethylene, we needed to keep the supply line full. We needed to diversify our industry. As a more recreational pursuit Lee and I also spent hours running around the neighborhood playing 'Army' with a dozen different kids. Some had actual plastic toy replica rifles and pistols. These cheap trinkets were not for us. We were warriors. Our father kept a large supply of wood and metal scraps and allowed us access to his tools and his workshop. Sections of galvanized pipe for rifle barrels and hand sanded blocks of wood for gun stocks. We were doing ok, not recording huge profits, yet also not starving thanks to an ample supply of peanut butter sandwiches provided by the upstairs kithchen staff. But then our big business break came. A houseful of similar aged boys to our own malepack moved in across the street. The Galowskis, and those boys desperately wanted to play army with us. However the patriarch of the family, a Polish immigrant electrician, tired of war, would not allow it. So the illicit arms trade was formulated. Lee and I would work tirelessly to fill the burgeoning backorders for pointless pointy weapons to trade at dusk with the Galowski boys. They had money so Lee and I would list the latest car model kits we craved, including the stunning 1964 Buick Riviera. Guns for cars, this became our mission. The Galowskis went down to Montgomery Wards at Greenfield and Grand River, purchased the kits on our wish list, traded the kits for our beautifully manufactured guns and thus Lee and I arrived in carbuilding heaven. This enterprise ran on successfully until Mr. Galowski discovered the stash of hidden weapons in his garage and smashed them with his mighty sledgehammer. Lee and I kept the cars.

Just Dessert Having an Older Brother lead the way quickly taught me valuable and practical life lessons such as; things you always want must be earned. We both always wanted dessert; you earned dessert by eating cauliflower and broccoli. The frosting on the freshly made and very foolishly left unattended cake was thick and sweet, we carefully checked. Although a five year old boy and a six year old boy cannot artfully hide evidence we each had alibis. Lee "I was with him" helpfully points at me. Me (again, learning quickly from the Master O. B.) " I was with him". Lee says "we were outside". Then there was the evidence placed in front of us, more than a quarter of the cake made to serve thirteen family members was now air space. A bunch of stuff happened shortly thereafter, no need to dwell on that part here. The following day, in our next project/adventure/extortion morning meeting Lee, again in the role of Guiding O. B., points out how within the supply demand cycle we each were able to eat more than twice as much cake as did any other family member. And no stinkin broccoli either. We had our cake...and some of yours as well. Thank you Lee

Success calls for both clear communication and coordinated teamwork. My forward thinking older brother Lee taught me what he knew of these skills. Lee came up with the name, we called it: Hut one Hut two Hut three. We often employed this scheme to reach loftier goals. For instance to get stuff put intentionally out of our reach higher up on shelves around the Detroit house. The procedure: Hut one...I get down on my hands and knees. Hut two...Lee deftly steps up on my backbone. Hut three...Lee grabs objective, jumps down, we run. Although effective, we stopped using this technique when we reached our early thirties.

Lee went east for University on his 18th birthday. I was still 16 and went west a few days later. For places unknown. Six months later Lee caught up to me, let me know he thought I was being really stupid, with some shoving back and forth for emphasis. Two months after our 'discussion' we were living together in Detroit on Rutherford Street, Lee at University, me in high school. Thank you Lee for the redirection in my life. One afternoon I returned to the house from working at Stan's Market and began shoving food in my mouth in the kitchen. Lee went out the front door, got in his 289 white body, black ragtop Mustang headed to work at Grandmont Hardware. Five minutes later I dropped my food, ran out the front door, tore down the street as fast as I could run. I did not know why, but I ran a block and a half south down Rutherford. I found Lee, dazed at the wheel, in a bad car accident. Lee somehow called out to me that day in the streets of Detroit... and I heard him.

Lee's very first Volkswagen was iconic. An early beetle with no need for unnecessary frivolous add ons, ...like a fuel gauge... anywhere in the car, instead just a simple foot flipped floor level lever reserve fuel flip switch. Austere. So we hot rodded the beast up with a $3 junkyard fuel gauge cutting with a hacksaw blade into the all steel dashboard. Went from zero to sixty in no time after that, meaning at no time did Lee's first Volkswagen bug ever go from zero to sixty. Iconic Lee.

Step into any of Lee's garages over the last 40 years and you see Lee had a motorcycle problem, he loves them. British, Japanese, German, Italian... even humble Montgomery Wards'. Lee was 13, I 12 and we road our bikes down Grand River to Greenfield, going in the back door of MW to touch and smell the Benelli Wards Riverside 250s. We had Triumph and BSA cardstock promotional photos of the Bonneville 650 and Lightning A65 on our basement workroom walls, sent away for in our best imitation adult writing. In fact, none of these bikes ever magically showed up in the driveway, neither at Christmas nor on our birthday. Lee makes a plan. He and I will save up bucks, pool our cash, and when he turns 16 we buy... Lee's first motorcycle. We heard it run at the local shop and a couple of days later, in February, they delivered a frozen, now classic, mid 60s Honda CL 350 to dad's garage. The garage was frozen, Detroit was frozen, the electric starter was useless and we were undeterred. We took turns standing on a foot peg while whaling on the kick starter. Three hundred kicks later, by warming the air cooled motor through sheer mindless induced friction, it starts. Lee jumps on it, I throw open the garage door and he is gone. February in Detroit and he does not care. I stand in the driveway with a head full of twin cylinder driven thoughts, waiting my turn. I barely notice Tom Maloney, automotive engineer at FoMoCo who lives next door, carrying a bucket and walking towards the street. Lee roars up working the throttle with the bike in neutral. We are happy, Mr Maloney disappears. My turn, I go. Returning on Grand River I turn left onto Abington and see Lee standing at the end of our driveway. For his entertainment I gun it, in gear. Now there is Tom's fresh frozen, slick sheeted, ice glaze under the bike. Bike goes down, I go skidding, we separate in motion and slide down this street of Detroit. The road was like concrete in February, the road was concrete in February. We scrape down past Lee and he runs towards me, my Older Brother, a look of care and deep concern across his face. Lee runs to me. Lee runs past me. Lee runs to the 350. I believe there was a small tear in his eye, but dear reader do not be concerned. Lee's very first motorcycle was fine, and quite warmed up as well. Thank you Lee.