A love affair with a great Bill Mitchell design

By Dan LeBlanc

Photography by Ben Gillcrist

One of the most frequently asked questions I get at car shows after, “What is it?” is, “How did you ever get into Cadillacs, and why these years?”

Rewind back to the fall of 2004. After several months of driving the back roads of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia looking for a project or that ever-elusive barn find, my goal became finding something different. We almost decided on a 1952 Mercedes diesel sedan. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was lacking.

One night, my then-spouse and I were pulling out of a driveway and she said, “Hey, there’s an old car in the back yard right there.” My curiosity was piqued, so I pulled into the driveway and knocked at the door—nobody was home. There was a 1977 Lincoln in the garage. Nope, that couldn’t be it. Then, I turned my head and I saw a two-door, finned car in white and turquoise. It had obviously been there for some time, parked with the hood open so long that it was collapsed in the middle. But I saw past that and beyond the tree growing between the bumper and fuel door. It had two sets of fins. It was intriguing, and I had never seen anything like it. The dash script read Cadillac.

Now that I figured out it was a Cadillac, it became a question of what year. Keep in mind, this was 2004, and information was not as readily available on the Internet as it is now. Out came the automotive books. It was a 1962 Cadillac Coupe de Ville. Something about that car spoke to me, so I went about finding the owner.

I tracked him down at the furniture store where he worked: “Are you Gerry?” Being young and not able to afford much, I was afraid to insult him when he asked what the Cadillac was worth to me. “Well, I noticed you had a broken window in the front of your house, and I could fix it for you as a start.” He said, “That’s payment enough.” His snowplow had broken it the previous winter, and I fixed it with a piece of Lexan, assuring him it would never break again. We called a tow truck and were on our way. I was now officially “a skegger”!

In August 2007, after 2½ years and two parts cars, the Cadillac went for its first drive…a beautiful thing. Two years later, I heard of a 1961 Fleetwood, special order interior, Nautilus Blue and Olympic White, and had to have it. It had a ’50s flair and 1960s elegance. After I sold the Coupe de Ville, a friend inspected the Fleetwood and I bought it sight unseen. Travelled 22 hours to get it, and it was nothing like it was made out to be. I hauled it home and started working on it. Life events happened, and the car ended up being put outside after my picking away at it for a while.

2013—After doing little projects here and there, my current spouse and I started toying with the idea of getting something turnkey. We set on a mission and attended the Grand National in Quincy, Mass. I was coming home with a car. Being a day’s trip away from another black 1961 Fleetwood with black-and-white interior, I called the seller several times, left messages, no return calls. We also looked at a 1965 Fleetwood Brougham that was OK, but one thing was missing—the skeg!

After nearly giving up, the night before the show day at the 2013 Grand National, thinking I would never find something, we had decided to send out the Fleetwood we had to the body shop. I showed up that Saturday morning at the Judges’ Breakfast, we got our assignments and had 22 cars in our class. Judging our last car late that afternoon, I walked the show field.

There it was, 4,972 pounds of black beauty. This was the car I had envisioned—this is what I was going to build (with the exception of the Fawn Crestwood interior). I stood in awe of this car for the next 20 minutes, walking around it, hoping the owner would show up so I could talk to him about it. As I circled the car, it became quite evident that this car was something special—it was untouched. Starting a conversation with a fellow “skegger,” I noticed the car driving away.

Much to the surprise of those looking on—a fat man can run when he wants to. I ran after the car, flailing my arms. Thankfully, the driver stopped. I opened the passenger door and calmly asked, “Is the car for sale?” The driver, thinking, “What a nut,” said, “I dunno, it’s my brother’s car.” He gave me his phone number and called the brother, who said he doesn’t normally sell his cars, but he would think about it and to call him on Monday or Tuesday. After the longest 2½ days of my life, I called first thing Tuesday morning.

The Fleetwood was originally owned by a wealthy businessman in Florida, who purchased the car new and had it delivered to his summer residence in Warwick, R.I. It was driven only in the summers and was retired in 1977 with 17,644 miles. The car had not been restored in any way, and he missed first place in Primary. My excitement built—he told me that it was awakened from its slumber and needed very little. Of all the cars he owned, he drove this one the least and he would entrust me to take care of it. The deal was sealed.

If you ever wanted to know what purgatory is like, it’s the waiting period to go get the car of your dreams. Three weeks passed, and we drove the car home, finally. After addressing the issues the car had from sitting, we took it to Fall Hershey. Not knowing much, we put it in class judging and were ecstatic when the car won a First Junior.

After that win, and knowing how close the 2014 Grand National was to us, we decided to see if we could get that elusive win in Primary Class. It was the trip of a lifetime—we drove the Fleetwood there. On the way, it marked the monumental rollover to 20,000 miles. We met some fantastic people, a wonderful judging team, and made memories to last forever. It was with bated breath we waited for the judging results—there it was, we made it and were given a Past Presidents’ Preservation Award.

This confirmed what we already knew—we had a special car. Our original car competed in class judging twice and won. Now the question is, “Why do you do it, Dan?” The answer is always—“For the love of skegs.”

Dan LeBlanc lives in St. George, New Brunswick, Canada.