This week, on two occasions when I went into town, I spotted objects from my past. Those glorious, turbulent, psychedelic, “Make love not war,” days, the 60s’.
Cars have always been a reminder of my past. I remember every car we ever purchased during our married life, some with fondness and some with, “Oh my God, what a pile of junk.”
There was the 62’ Chevy my husband had when we got married, red with really great bench seats…moving along…………
The 64’ Mustang, just like the one I took the photo of the other day—same color and everything. You notice I say everything because I’m not a guy, and I don’t remember things like, make and model. All I know is, it was a Mustang and it was cool!
When I took a second look at that mustang, I wondered how, in the wide world of sports, did we managed to fit our bodies into that thing. Probably our twenty something joints and a few less pounds might be the answer. I’d like to think I could do it again, but then I have my memories.
Oh yes, we even had a Gremlin for a short time. What a strange-looking vehicle that was. I felt like the wife in a Jetson’s cartoon.
And how could I forget the Pinto station wagon that got hot when the air conditioner was running. I had to turn it off while idling at stop lights or it would die leaving me there in the middle of the intersection, embarrassed, mumbling a few choice words under my breath.
Then there was the Monte’ Carlo that caught fire one morning as I was getting ready to leave for work. Luckily, I maneuvered it out of the car port before the mushroom cloud formed and the tires started popping!
And how could I forget the Maverick, the one we drove to California in the heat of summer, with a three year-old, without air conditioning or seat belts? We did it, it was fun, and we lived to tell about it!
I came upon this beauty as I was leaving Walgreens this week. We never owned a Woodie, but man did that wagon bring back memories of our time in California, in the 1960’s. The Beach Boys, smells of the Pacific Ocean, and madras plaid shirts, filled my head with sweet nostalgia. I still have the album/albums of the Beach Boys posing on a Woodie with their surf boards in hand. Ah… the magnetism of the bleached-blond surfer—his hair blowing in the ocean breeze, holding his surf board as a warrior might hold his shield and spear.
For whatever reasons, we Americans love our cars. They symbolize who we are or who we’d like to think we are. For some, its prestige and power, for others it’s convenience and economy, and for those few who can pull it off… sexy.
“Look at me, I’m so cool!”
Put a sixty year-old in a red Corvette he’s eighteen again—a vertically challenged guy in a Ram pickup, and he’s 6 foot tall– grandma in a rag-top, and she’s seventeen again with nothing on her mind but, how cool it would be if that certain someone could see her.
When a guy drives a minivan it says, “I’m married with too many kids to fit into my cool sports car,the one that’s at home right now, in the garage…yeah, sure it is!
It always amazes me that the majority of vehicles I see in the city are four-wheel drive, jacked up SUV’s and trucks and that they will likely never see snow or mud.
It’s all in how our car, truck, station wagon, van or SUV makes us feel.
It’s a love affair, the price of gas be damned!
If Henry Ford could only see us now!