| Biographical Non-Fiction posted June 28, 2022 |
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Memories of Automobiles
Let's Go for a Ride
by Terry Broxson
I think every generation has had a love affair with the automobile since the first one was driven out of a garage. Being among the first baby boomers (born in 1946), I was no different. This story is a ride down memory lane about automobiles and memorable experiences.
The first car I remember my father buying was a 1956 Buick Road Master, black on red. If cars had sex appeal, and they did, this one had it. Okay, I was ten and didn't know what that meant, but it was a beauty.
I remember this Buick had four round holes on each side of the hood. Buick had a TV commercial with a fellow in a white lab coat saying, "In the future, all cars will have holes on the hood." Buick was wrong about that; General Motors still makes Buicks but with no holes.
When I was sixteen, my first car was a 1955 two-door pea-green Chevy. Did it have sex appeal? No. It didn't matter. A girl never rode in it. I don't think it was the car. It could have been the driver, or maybe it was the car. I was not the best student of stuff like that in those days.
By the time I was a senior in college, things were looking up. My father was letting me "borrow" his 1966 gold Pontiac GTO. That year, the insurance business was good, and he bought a Cadillac. But he did not want to let go of the GTO.
GTOs were pure automobile sex appeal. Except they had bucket seats, a center console with gear shift, and a small backseat. If you thought you could get close to a girl, forget it. Coeds did like cruising in them, but that was about it.
When I graduated college, I attended law school for a while. My dad said the GTO had to go because my brother was starting college, and I was now on my own, but he let me use a 1967 Toyota Corona that my mother had driven. Sexy? No, it certainly was not to look at.
The thing about those Toyotas was the front seat folded flat and allowed the occupants to sit all the way to the back seat. The lovely law student Miss Susan thought that was very cool. I wonder what happened to her?
When I met Zoe in 1973, I was driving the first car I had ever bought for myself. A green and white Ford Pinto Hatchback. Its name was Whoa Pinto! Zoe went out with me, anyway.
The first car Zoe and I bought together was a 1975 Chrysler Cordova. It was maroon with a cloth interior called "Indian Blanket." My friend Phil Davis got in it and said, "Wow, this looks like a Navajo whorehouse!"
I have a lot of respect for Native Americans. I love and collect their art. But I must say that Phil is the only person I have ever known to claim firsthand knowledge of a Navajo whorehouse.
Zoe always wanted a convertible. She had never had one. That changed when we got married. For the rest of her life, she had a convertible. The first was a 1968 MGB roadster. I paid $1500 for it. It needed work. But I was a college graduate and figured I could do it.
The first problem for the MGB was that it needed a new clutch. I bought a Chilton repair manual for this car. This manual was a step-by-step guide to car repair. Step one was to remove the engine.
"Are you kidding me? That is step one? I live in an apartment!" I sold the MGB for $1300 and included the Chilton manual. Sadly, I realized my degree in speech and political science was worthless in car repair.
After the debacle of the MGB, Zoe had a series of nice convertibles. Zoe told me the first car she owned was a 1959 VW Bug. Her last car was a new blue VW Bug convertible that she thought was perfect for an aging lady with flowing white hair.
In 1956 my mother took my little brother and me on a trip to visit our grandmother a hundred and forty miles from Midland, Texas, where we lived. We traveled Highway 80, a two-lane highway. Mother drove her 1953 Plymouth.
It was six o'clock in the morning in June. We were traveling east twenty miles from our house. The driver of a westbound car had fallen asleep and crossed into our lane. It was a head-on collision. My brother was sleeping in the front seat, and I was in the back.
My brother was thrown into the dash but only had a few bruises. I bounced off the back of the front seats and did not have a scratch. My mother had a broken arm, broken ankles, a broken nose, and some internal injuries. A teenage daughter in the other car had several broken bones. Her parents did not survive.
It has been almost seventy years, and I still hear my mother praying for her two boys, the people in the other car, and herself as we waited for help to arrive.
The first car I remember my father buying was a 1956 Buick Road Master, black on red. If cars had sex appeal, and they did, this one had it. Okay, I was ten and didn't know what that meant, but it was a beauty.
I remember this Buick had four round holes on each side of the hood. Buick had a TV commercial with a fellow in a white lab coat saying, "In the future, all cars will have holes on the hood." Buick was wrong about that; General Motors still makes Buicks but with no holes.
When I was sixteen, my first car was a 1955 two-door pea-green Chevy. Did it have sex appeal? No. It didn't matter. A girl never rode in it. I don't think it was the car. It could have been the driver, or maybe it was the car. I was not the best student of stuff like that in those days.
By the time I was a senior in college, things were looking up. My father was letting me "borrow" his 1966 gold Pontiac GTO. That year, the insurance business was good, and he bought a Cadillac. But he did not want to let go of the GTO.
GTOs were pure automobile sex appeal. Except they had bucket seats, a center console with gear shift, and a small backseat. If you thought you could get close to a girl, forget it. Coeds did like cruising in them, but that was about it.
When I graduated college, I attended law school for a while. My dad said the GTO had to go because my brother was starting college, and I was now on my own, but he let me use a 1967 Toyota Corona that my mother had driven. Sexy? No, it certainly was not to look at.
The thing about those Toyotas was the front seat folded flat and allowed the occupants to sit all the way to the back seat. The lovely law student Miss Susan thought that was very cool. I wonder what happened to her?
When I met Zoe in 1973, I was driving the first car I had ever bought for myself. A green and white Ford Pinto Hatchback. Its name was Whoa Pinto! Zoe went out with me, anyway.
The first car Zoe and I bought together was a 1975 Chrysler Cordova. It was maroon with a cloth interior called "Indian Blanket." My friend Phil Davis got in it and said, "Wow, this looks like a Navajo whorehouse!"
I have a lot of respect for Native Americans. I love and collect their art. But I must say that Phil is the only person I have ever known to claim firsthand knowledge of a Navajo whorehouse.
Zoe always wanted a convertible. She had never had one. That changed when we got married. For the rest of her life, she had a convertible. The first was a 1968 MGB roadster. I paid $1500 for it. It needed work. But I was a college graduate and figured I could do it.
The first problem for the MGB was that it needed a new clutch. I bought a Chilton repair manual for this car. This manual was a step-by-step guide to car repair. Step one was to remove the engine.
"Are you kidding me? That is step one? I live in an apartment!" I sold the MGB for $1300 and included the Chilton manual. Sadly, I realized my degree in speech and political science was worthless in car repair.
After the debacle of the MGB, Zoe had a series of nice convertibles. Zoe told me the first car she owned was a 1959 VW Bug. Her last car was a new blue VW Bug convertible that she thought was perfect for an aging lady with flowing white hair.
In 1956 my mother took my little brother and me on a trip to visit our grandmother a hundred and forty miles from Midland, Texas, where we lived. We traveled Highway 80, a two-lane highway. Mother drove her 1953 Plymouth.
It was six o'clock in the morning in June. We were traveling east twenty miles from our house. The driver of a westbound car had fallen asleep and crossed into our lane. It was a head-on collision. My brother was sleeping in the front seat, and I was in the back.
My brother was thrown into the dash but only had a few bruises. I bounced off the back of the front seats and did not have a scratch. My mother had a broken arm, broken ankles, a broken nose, and some internal injuries. A teenage daughter in the other car had several broken bones. Her parents did not survive.
It has been almost seventy years, and I still hear my mother praying for her two boys, the people in the other car, and herself as we waited for help to arrive.
True Story Contest contest entry
 Recognized |
#22 June 2022 |
Artwork by Way West at FanArtReview.com
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