This month on the mirror ball, you are invited to spend some time thinking about an early, significant car in your life: your first car, or one that your family owned when you were young. What did it look like? Where did it take you? Did you love it or was it a curse? Or both?
Dave W:
When I was real young, my family owned a VW bus. Blue. With a white top. It hurtled us back and forth in moves from Louisville, KY to Bremerton, WA, back to Louisville again and then finally to Corvallis, OR, where we settled. Once we’d arrived in the Heart of the Valley, we became A Volvo Family. My dad was a physician, my mother, was a…well…a mother. We were lucky. “We” being our parents and the four of us kids, doing our best living within the margins, within the rules, except for that one year my dad freaked out and bought a miniscule MG convertible. Man, that thing was sweet. It was about the size of my foot, but that thing hauled ass. My dad was all of 37 when he bought it, but due to either the high price of tune-ups (his figuring) or my mother’s glare (my figuring), he gave it up after one short spin around the sun. I remember taking one ride with him and my older brother up to Mary’s Peak (the highest point on the Coast Range), one dreary June day (if you’ve ever lived in Oregon, you understand how “June” and “dreary” go so well together). I remember being wedged in the back seat, which was more of a gutter for human spillover. It was small; I was big. It’s funny how I remember that car now, 40 years later, even though I don’t remember more than that one ride. And it’s not so much the car I remember, but my dad’s feeling when he was in the car. Pure, absolute, lightning bolt joy. After that blue bullet was sold, though, he did what most physicians did: he bought a gold Volvo 240 sedan. Oregon license plate GED 658. My mom followed suit with a white Volvo 245DL station wagon, Oregon license plate ENG 245. These are the cars I learned on… how to go fast, how to cruise for hours on end, and how to…nope, sorry to say, never properly made out in the Volvos. But I digress.
In 1984 I was finishing up my third year of college. I hesitate to say “junior year” because it was merely the third year of a six year cruise. In essence, I had three junior years. But this particular junior year was special. I had chosen to attend Oregon State University, which was in my hometown. When my junior year rolled around, I decided to take advantage of the National Student Exchange program and transferred to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. Or, as my parents never found out, ZooMass. When that year of frivolity, er, studying ended, I decided to stay on the East Coast and drink in the flavor, the history, the culture of New England. Oh yeah, and I was getting laid for the first time on a regular basis, too, so I kinda wanted that to continue. I lived in Lawrence, she lived in Andover and I worked in Tewksbury. For one, sweet, glorious summer. My 21st summer, as it was. But in order to navigate between those three towns, I needed a car. A few years earlier, my Grandfather had given each of us kids a $500 CD with the instructions that we could only cash it out in order to do something that would be life changing. This being 1984, $500 could still change your life. When I told him I wanted to cash it out to buy a car and live on my own, he was 100% behind me. So, with his approval, I stepped up and bought my first car: a white 1976 Fiat sedan.
Man, was it a piece of shit. You could lift up the floor mat behind the passenger seat and see the road you were traveling on…you could lift the actual drivers seat up and out of the car (it rested on a milk crate)…you could court death by taking it over 60 mph…there was so much rust on its undercarriage you could actually break off bits of metal. But it was mine. I took it all over that driver-friendly city, Boston, and out to the Cape, but mostly I drove among that triangle of towns in northeast Massachusetts. I did make it down to New York City for four glorious days to visit an old high school buddy who was in art school there. And man, I felt alive battling cabs for position up and down 5th Avenue, going so fast down city streets, weaving in an around slower vehicles. I was forced to invoke the Parking Gods for the first time in my life, in an effort to leave my car somewhere near my buddy’s Washington Park apartment. And generally, I was just a very young man in the greatest city in the world with one of my best friends riding shotgun. It was one of the greatest long weekends, within three of the greatest months, of my life.
But the year away from home, like all good (or bad) things, eventually came to its end. I had to, somehow, get this white micro-beast back to Oregon from Massachusetts for my fourth (but first of three) senior year. Upon making the declaration that I’d be driving it across country, my Grandmother did the one natural thing: Drop to her knees and pray. I, of course, felt fully confident in my abilities to drive solo across country in a beat up Fiat. True, I wasn’t the most mechanically- inclined young man (my prowess ended at changing light bulbs), but I had that one mysterious component of any great adventure: Faith. And while the women in my family were dubious at best at the prospect of young David driving west for six days, my brother and father were excited for me. And probably a little envious, to boot. “Just make sure there’s enough oil in it,” my dad intoned on the eve of my departure. “Right,” I replied, nearly giddy at the prospect of seeing so many great places as I drove homeward. I checked the oil in my car the morning I left and all was well. But why not put in another quart just for safety’s sake?
I drove west through upstate New York, past Lake Erie, stopped in South Bend to see Touchdown Jesus, moved through Chicago, not knowing (of course) that in seven short years I would be calling that city home. Through Wisconsin and up to Minneapolis to visit my cousin and her family. “Yep, better put in another quart, just for safety’s sake.” Across South Dakota to Mount Rushmore and then to the most beautiful state on my trip: Wyoming. “Rockies are coming…better put in another quart.” As I ascended the eastern flank of the Rockies, I was being passed by log trucks. I was a- chuggin’ chuggin’ chuggin’, the little Fiat that could, slightly terrified that I would be blown over the guardrails to my right, down the mountain, never to be seen again. “There was an angel on your shoulder!” my Grandmother beamed to me later that year. I’d sing along to the radio, talk to people at hotels and cafes and rest stops any chance I could, what with being 21 and unfettered as I was. But it was challenging…driving alone, 12 hours a day, for a week. I ended up talking to my plant, Robert, a little too much. Got into my head a little too deeply over the fact I’d just spent a significant time away from home for the first time and now I was coming back to My Hometown. I had grown immeasurably over the past twelve months and now I was returning to Corvallis. It was, at times, a difficult re-entry.
As I slowly, very slowly, crested the Cascades, I realized worry had been suppressed by excitement and now the grand adventure was coming to a close. A grand adventure bathed in white and blue smoke, as my engine begin its quick plummet into death. Oh, I made it to Corvallis, all right. Even used the Fiat to ferry kegs back and forth from football games that fall. And in those days of cheap gas, I thought nothing of firing my car up to drive the two miles to campus every Monday and Tuesday morning at 5:30 to go read the news on the campus radio station. This was a sad, selfish ritual, as my car would backfire and pop and bang and shoot plumes of noxious (and obnoxious) black and grey smoke into the sweet pre-dawn air, undoubtedly waking everyone in a four block radius.
I cringed at the prospect of letting it go, but one day, I had to. The wheezing and coughing and dis-ease forced me to take it to the auto shop, where the mechanic declared I’d need a complete valve job to rescue it. “Too much oil,” he said. *sigh* I declined. Later that day, I slowly scooted south of town to B & R Auto Wrecking, where they gave me fifty bucks. Fifty bucks for my buddy I’d named The White House. Fifty bucks to part with what had been my best friend for the sweet, young summer of 1984.
Dave W:
When I was real young, my family owned a VW bus. Blue. With a white top. It hurtled us back and forth in moves from Louisville, KY to Bremerton, WA, back to Louisville again and then finally to Corvallis, OR, where we settled. Once we’d arrived in the Heart of the Valley, we became A Volvo Family. My dad was a physician, my mother, was a…well…a mother. We were lucky. “We” being our parents and the four of us kids, doing our best living within the margins, within the rules, except for that one year my dad freaked out and bought a miniscule MG convertible. Man, that thing was sweet. It was about the size of my foot, but that thing hauled ass. My dad was all of 37 when he bought it, but due to either the high price of tune-ups (his figuring) or my mother’s glare (my figuring), he gave it up after one short spin around the sun. I remember taking one ride with him and my older brother up to Mary’s Peak (the highest point on the Coast Range), one dreary June day (if you’ve ever lived in Oregon, you understand how “June” and “dreary” go so well together). I remember being wedged in the back seat, which was more of a gutter for human spillover. It was small; I was big. It’s funny how I remember that car now, 40 years later, even though I don’t remember more than that one ride. And it’s not so much the car I remember, but my dad’s feeling when he was in the car. Pure, absolute, lightning bolt joy. After that blue bullet was sold, though, he did what most physicians did: he bought a gold Volvo 240 sedan. Oregon license plate GED 658. My mom followed suit with a white Volvo 245DL station wagon, Oregon license plate ENG 245. These are the cars I learned on… how to go fast, how to cruise for hours on end, and how to…nope, sorry to say, never properly made out in the Volvos. But I digress.
In 1984 I was finishing up my third year of college. I hesitate to say “junior year” because it was merely the third year of a six year cruise. In essence, I had three junior years. But this particular junior year was special. I had chosen to attend Oregon State University, which was in my hometown. When my junior year rolled around, I decided to take advantage of the National Student Exchange program and transferred to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. Or, as my parents never found out, ZooMass. When that year of frivolity, er, studying ended, I decided to stay on the East Coast and drink in the flavor, the history, the culture of New England. Oh yeah, and I was getting laid for the first time on a regular basis, too, so I kinda wanted that to continue. I lived in Lawrence, she lived in Andover and I worked in Tewksbury. For one, sweet, glorious summer. My 21st summer, as it was. But in order to navigate between those three towns, I needed a car. A few years earlier, my Grandfather had given each of us kids a $500 CD with the instructions that we could only cash it out in order to do something that would be life changing. This being 1984, $500 could still change your life. When I told him I wanted to cash it out to buy a car and live on my own, he was 100% behind me. So, with his approval, I stepped up and bought my first car: a white 1976 Fiat sedan.
Man, was it a piece of shit. You could lift up the floor mat behind the passenger seat and see the road you were traveling on…you could lift the actual drivers seat up and out of the car (it rested on a milk crate)…you could court death by taking it over 60 mph…there was so much rust on its undercarriage you could actually break off bits of metal. But it was mine. I took it all over that driver-friendly city, Boston, and out to the Cape, but mostly I drove among that triangle of towns in northeast Massachusetts. I did make it down to New York City for four glorious days to visit an old high school buddy who was in art school there. And man, I felt alive battling cabs for position up and down 5th Avenue, going so fast down city streets, weaving in an around slower vehicles. I was forced to invoke the Parking Gods for the first time in my life, in an effort to leave my car somewhere near my buddy’s Washington Park apartment. And generally, I was just a very young man in the greatest city in the world with one of my best friends riding shotgun. It was one of the greatest long weekends, within three of the greatest months, of my life.
But the year away from home, like all good (or bad) things, eventually came to its end. I had to, somehow, get this white micro-beast back to Oregon from Massachusetts for my fourth (but first of three) senior year. Upon making the declaration that I’d be driving it across country, my Grandmother did the one natural thing: Drop to her knees and pray. I, of course, felt fully confident in my abilities to drive solo across country in a beat up Fiat. True, I wasn’t the most mechanically- inclined young man (my prowess ended at changing light bulbs), but I had that one mysterious component of any great adventure: Faith. And while the women in my family were dubious at best at the prospect of young David driving west for six days, my brother and father were excited for me. And probably a little envious, to boot. “Just make sure there’s enough oil in it,” my dad intoned on the eve of my departure. “Right,” I replied, nearly giddy at the prospect of seeing so many great places as I drove homeward. I checked the oil in my car the morning I left and all was well. But why not put in another quart just for safety’s sake?
I drove west through upstate New York, past Lake Erie, stopped in South Bend to see Touchdown Jesus, moved through Chicago, not knowing (of course) that in seven short years I would be calling that city home. Through Wisconsin and up to Minneapolis to visit my cousin and her family. “Yep, better put in another quart, just for safety’s sake.” Across South Dakota to Mount Rushmore and then to the most beautiful state on my trip: Wyoming. “Rockies are coming…better put in another quart.” As I ascended the eastern flank of the Rockies, I was being passed by log trucks. I was a- chuggin’ chuggin’ chuggin’, the little Fiat that could, slightly terrified that I would be blown over the guardrails to my right, down the mountain, never to be seen again. “There was an angel on your shoulder!” my Grandmother beamed to me later that year. I’d sing along to the radio, talk to people at hotels and cafes and rest stops any chance I could, what with being 21 and unfettered as I was. But it was challenging…driving alone, 12 hours a day, for a week. I ended up talking to my plant, Robert, a little too much. Got into my head a little too deeply over the fact I’d just spent a significant time away from home for the first time and now I was coming back to My Hometown. I had grown immeasurably over the past twelve months and now I was returning to Corvallis. It was, at times, a difficult re-entry.
As I slowly, very slowly, crested the Cascades, I realized worry had been suppressed by excitement and now the grand adventure was coming to a close. A grand adventure bathed in white and blue smoke, as my engine begin its quick plummet into death. Oh, I made it to Corvallis, all right. Even used the Fiat to ferry kegs back and forth from football games that fall. And in those days of cheap gas, I thought nothing of firing my car up to drive the two miles to campus every Monday and Tuesday morning at 5:30 to go read the news on the campus radio station. This was a sad, selfish ritual, as my car would backfire and pop and bang and shoot plumes of noxious (and obnoxious) black and grey smoke into the sweet pre-dawn air, undoubtedly waking everyone in a four block radius.
I cringed at the prospect of letting it go, but one day, I had to. The wheezing and coughing and dis-ease forced me to take it to the auto shop, where the mechanic declared I’d need a complete valve job to rescue it. “Too much oil,” he said. *sigh* I declined. Later that day, I slowly scooted south of town to B & R Auto Wrecking, where they gave me fifty bucks. Fifty bucks for my buddy I’d named The White House. Fifty bucks to part with what had been my best friend for the sweet, young summer of 1984.
Tanya:
I remember the good old days as a kid when seatbelts were optional, carseats were nonexistent, and every family I knew had a Buick station wagon with fake wood siding and chrome trim. My dad had a big foam mattress made to fit the rear of ours and all the kids would pile in the back and roll around on endless road trips with our toys, games, and snacks. We had those driving bingo boards where the little green gel covers would slide to conceal the things you would spot along the road (like fire hydrants, stop-signs, dogs, trucks etc.) so you could be the first to get bingo. I remember once waking up back there while my folks were at a drive-in movie that was definitely rated R. I stayed really quiet so as to see the couple on screen engaging in some sketchy physical activities in a kids nursery, all the while the stuffed animals were eerily coming to life. Crazy what images stay with you for life! In the summer the mattress was always a bit "beachy", and if you fished around enough you could most likely find some old sticky sugar daddy or such. Life was so simple. Amazing that we never had an accident where we all cannonballed out through the window, but we could not have felt more safe and loved and that all was right in the world. As with all the cars in my youth, that station wagon died one day in the driveway and was hauled away. Mom joked that it was held together by chewing gum. My brother the photographer immortalized that car with a life-sized blow-up of the rear end fully outfitted with the actual tale-lights in place, plugged in and working. I think it now lives somewhere in his garage.
Garris:
My Grandfather Wimmer died of a heart attack in 1966. My Grandmother, Mary Oliver Wimmer, LOVED her husband so very much....he was such a major part of her world and when he died at the age of 60 she was, to say the least, devastated. After his death, Mary just couldn't bring herself to drive his beautifull old car that he loved so much....so she brought a brand new 1966 Oldsmobile 98 model....to try and give herself a fresh new start. This car had everything. Where Grandaddy always bought big black cars....this one was beautiful, creamy beige. It had power steering, power brakes and electric windows and it was grand indeed. It always looked like a steam ship coming down the road with her tiny head just popping out above the "wheel".And she took CARE of that car. It was almost as if she transfered her love for Paul (Grandaddy) into a love for maintaining that car. Like her...the car never left the garage without looking impeccable and I don't think the "new" smell ever,ever left that automobile. I remember very well climbing the magnolia tree in our front yard on the days when I knew Grandmother was driving over from Kingsport to visit. From the top of the tree I would always be the first one to alert everyone to the fact that she was coming up the country road for a nice long visit. She would get to to the top of the hill about 100 yards from our house and toot the horn and there she would zoom down the hill to our driveway in that beautiful beige boat.
Many, many, many years later...when I was a freshman in college....I inherited The Queen Mary (as we had come to call her) from my grandmother. By now she was in her early 90's and no longer drove. I used to love to drive it around campus and show off my fancy power windows and I did my best to maintain her sleek look. I wasn't always so successful at this attempt. By now I was working at Opryland, a theme park located in Nashville. One night...around dusk...I had to leave the park and go to the Opryland Hotel to do a show. Since I had a late show in the park.....they allowed me to park in the administration parking lot so that I could quickly get from my park show to my hotel show. As I said, it was dusk and a bit rainy. I raced out to get in the Queen Mary and quickly pulled out of my parking space....only to run smack dab into the trolly that carried park employeees to the back lot where they had had to park their cars. Besides being really embarassed...I was devastated at having put a pretty massive dent in the front left fender of my Grandmother's beloved. I was also too poor to get her fixed right away....so for about a year I drove her that way (everytime I made a left hand turn I was reminded by a gentle scraping of the fender on the left front tire). Eventually I did get the Queen Mary repaired and ran her for a few more good years. I also finally confessed to Grandmother that I had injured her beloved car....but by then she had grown less concerned about the old girl. The Queen Mary eventually ended up sitting behind my dad's barn and rusting out....but I do remember her quite fondly and I swear to you that when I close my eyes I can still smell that new car smell that somehow chose to never fade away.
Richard:
i have never owned a car, and i never hope to have to own one.Richard:
i have no idea how tell one make from another.
the only way i can figure out what what kind of car one might be talking about is if you describe it's color.
i walked to grade school.
i took a bus to high school and college.
and then i moved to nyc and bought a bike.
i have driven thru 40 states in rental cars, most of them white.
and not a single one has left any impression on me at all.
Lori F:
My first car, and the only one that I really ever cared for, a poop brown 1978 Camaro that I named "Frankie" after Tim Curry's Dr. Frankfurter in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Vanity plate read HOT P2T. It was a big, brown bomber. My best friend in high school Susanne & I would cruise the strip at Clearwater Beach in Frankie and pick up boys. We would blast Erasure, Def Leppard, and REM from the tape deck. Frankie had a light tan plasticy interior with two doors and front seats you had to lift up and down to get in the back seat. Frankie died when I was going too fast in the rain and caused a twelve car accident. My dad had him fixed after the wreck, even had him re-painted a bright tomato red, but he was never the same. We had to get rid of him. That night, I wrote a long, tear stained diary entry about how I wish I never would have gotten in that accident in the rain and how much I missed my old, poop brown car. I can't tell you the make or model of any car I have had since, including the one I currently drive. But hot patootie, bless my soul, I really loved that Camaro. The only car I ever truly cared about, the only car I ever loved.
Lori M:
Here is Ursula, an '83 Chevy Suburban that once belonged to my beloved Granny Eva who then passed it along to me. My Granny initially bought this beast when she lived in Connecticut and needed a vehicle that could haul her large sheets of stainless steel from the supplier to her home shop/studio. She was a sculptor, originally from Vienna, who had a humped back due to osteoporosis, so over the years, she got lower and lower in the seat behind the wheel of Ursula. She was a terrible driver, primarily because she talked a lot and would concentrate more on what she was saying to her passengers than she would to the road. I remember one harrowing drive into New York City with Granny at the helm, Ursula roaring down Lexington Avenue, cutting off cars right and left. I suppose it was lucky we were the biggest car on the road - she was completely unaware of the havoc she was creating or of the impassioned gesticulations from the other drivers aimed in her direction. Completely unfazed. The inside of the car smelled like a mixture of musty air-conditioning and Granny's make-up - she wore a lot of foundation - rarely applied evenly. When I graduated from college, she decided to upgrade to the newer Suburban, so she gave me Ursula. I don't remember how many friends I helped to move, but there were a lot. My husband and I donated Ursula to a non-profit 5 days before our son was born and bought a Prius.
First car was a bright orange, stick shift, Ford Fiesta. My mom taught me to drive that car at the age 14 on the empty streets of my 5am morning paper route. Later, after I had my license, a man pulled up next to me and shouted "how does it feel to be driving around in a giant pumpkin?!" heh heh.... my little brother was with me and we laughed. Funny how dumb things like that develop your sense of humor. : 0 )
John M:
Oh my, what a great question. My first car was a 1967 Ford Falcon. It was so cool. The best part was that it had a little red light shaped like a falcon that came on to indicate the bright lights were on. It took me everywhere, to the local bookstore which was my safe haven, to Albany to my first gay bar, to the Rocky Horror Picture Show week after week after week. It took me to school, and became a means of kindness to one of my best friends, a girl who got pregnant and didn't want to subject herself to the cruelty of the school bus, so I would drive her home every day.It was my freedom and my friend. It didn't last that long but while it did, it was a bright spot in my life.
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