C is for Cars

I started liking cars when I was about nine years old. My Uncle Ike let us ride in the rumble seat of his Model A car. I felt like a parade princess tooling around Buehler, Kansas. From then on, I was hooked on the feelings that came with riding in cool cars. I have an old photo somewhere, but his Model A kind of looked like the one pictured here.


Another car I remember is the Buick that broke down on our family vacation. My parents had six kids--three biological and three foster kids. The car broke down en route to our destination and we had to be towed to the bus station. In those days, they let people ride in the towed vehicle. I still remember how fun it was to ride at an angle! To me, it was an adventure of magnanimous proportion. (How many other kids get to ride on the back of tow truck on their vacation? We were just lucky, I guess.) My mom remembers each of us carrying a suitcase through the bus terminal. Picture the Family von Trapp minus one child and the drapery-inspired wardrobe.


When I was in fifth grade, my dad and I played in "The Music Man" at the local community theatre. He was a River City Volunteer fireman, and I was Amaryllis. Our rehearsals were from about 6-9 pm several nights a week. Riding our half-hour round trip together for 12 weeks was a special time of bonding with him, and the medium blue car was really cool-- A '64 Dodge Rambler with push-button transmission. The buttons were on the dashboard. I loved to get in and, with permission, push "reverse" and then other gears as long as we were on back roads heading to rehearsal.

One car I loved, loved, loved to ride in was our shiny black '66 Fleetwood Cadillac, like the one below. My dad paid $900 for it. Built into the back of the front seats were drop-down trays like you see in airplanes. By pushing a button on the top of the seat, down it came. Daddy didn't allow eating in his cars, but we liked to prop our book there and read. The car also had hinged footrests. Despite its beauty and charm, the car had its mechanical and electrical quirks. My friends from youth group teased us about our rattle-trap. Church bells couldn't drown out the sound of pathetic pistons.



The car I learned to drive on was a new, white Toyota Corolla Tercel. My dad took me first out to the pasture in the vehicle and gave a few instructions. "The main thing is not to hit the horse or the barn." Patient man, I think I gave him whiplash on multiple outings in that car, but I am so glad I learned to drive a stick shift. There's no feeling quite like burning up a clutch--er, changing gears with the left foot and right hand in unison.

My first car was a 1984 navy blue, two-door, 4-speed Chevy Chevette with black cloth seats and no air conditioning. There wasn't much legroom in the thing--and I'm short! (As one reviewer says about that model, "This car was small enough to fit into its own glove compartment." The sticker price was $4200, but Daddy taught me to haggle with few words. (Or, at least he tried.) I wanted that car so badly I would have paid full price (only considering that my monthly payments would be stretched out, not the overall value of the thing). He told the salesman our bottom price was $3400, take it or leave it. The salesman walked away (the old "to speak with my manager" trick) and while he was gone, I nearly hyperventilated. "Daddy! It's my car! I will pay $4200 if I have to! I really want it!" He shushed me and said not to let on how much I wanted it, and not to worry-- the salesman needed a sale. Sure enough, we got the keys to the car for $3400, and I got not just a new-found freedom, but also a lesson in business transactions at a car dealership.

The experience also taught me this: if you can covet a Chevy Chevette, you can covet anything.


Coincidentally--something I thought quite romantic-- Paul also had a 1984 Chevy Chevette when I met him-- except his was a silver sedan with A/C. Whenever we went places together, his car was the car of choice.

One of my favorite cars that Paul and I bought was our '88 Dodge Dynasty. What a luxury to drive around with so much space that two kids couldn't touch each other.

My Uncle Norman's '66 red Mustang convertible is a true beauty. A few months ago, he and I were talking about cars and I told him that his convertible rides had made me a really big impact on me. I had decided that, when I was in my 40s, I'd treat myself to the joy of owning one, and so--when my daughter needed a little beater car, why not make it a fun beater? We found a '97 Saab convertible for $3300 and bought it. I do go joy-riding in the sunshine as often as possible.

Uncle Norman asked me what color it is.
"Taupe," I said.
"Oh, uh-huh, taupe, huh? Taupe's nice." I could hear a polite, Midwestern disapproval from the word "nice." Then, unable to resist interjecting his car-buff's opinion, he added this: "Paint it red. You'll get a lot more attention."

I think that's hysterical coming from an 80-year-old man.

Right now I drive a silver Chrysler. A "nice" ride for a minivan, a vehicle I'm thankful for, but I'd love a new thing of automotive beauty. Like I tell people, it'd be great to do more than zero-to-sixty in an afternoon.

C is for cars, and if I don't stop talking about them, I'm going to end up at a showroom taking a Jaguar for a spin.