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This is a great sideshow RAK sent me, and is sure to rekindle some old memories (unless you're too young to know the lyrics to the Micky Mouse Club
song). This picture of a 1958 Plymouth Fury sure took me
back to some not-too-fond mems. Got my driver's license driving the cheaper Savoy model;
the family car. It had a PowerFlite 2 speed Push Button transmission, which was way cool (at the time). Our car was painted Bluebonnet Blue, with an optional white top.
The very first time I drove her as a licensed driver was to pick
up my sister, and her girlfriend Leslie at the Jr. High. "Pick them
up, drop Leslie off, and come right home," my mother instructed.
There
was long oval driveway approach to the school, and I could see the two
of them standing there as I approached. Making the final turn I
floored the accelerator, an act similar to a Peacock showing his
colors, and promptly went into a spin. I was stopped by a curb that
was just about an inch higher than the car's drive train. In
short, I had gone hard-aground.
About
a year later, just about the time I had paid for damage from that
mishap, I had the family car for two hours one Saturday. My dad
limited me
to 50 miles, and took beginning and ending odometer readings.
Friends
from Chicago, from whence we had just moved, were visiting, and we were
all headed to see Washington D.C. the next morning. I was instructed
to have the tank filled with gas.
I picked up my friend Wally, and we drove to Beaver Springs
swimming hole in Cockeysville. Pulling into the lot, Wally said whoa,
there's Sharon and Nancy. I slowed, and just before coming to a stop I
pressed the "R" button. I forget what sound it made, but there was
one. And the car would not drive in reverse. OMFG! We tried
everything.
It was here that I invoked my version of Cal Coolidge's
"If you see ten troubles coming down the road, you can be sure that nine will run into the ditch
before they reach you." Which meant, it'll fix itself. I pulled into the carport, hoping beyond
hope (I thought my chances pretty good) that a good night's rest would
cure the sumbitch.
Now, my bedroom was located on the wall next to the driveway. The
next morning
my mom poked her head in to ask if I'd changed my mind about
going. I had not. There was no way I was getting into that
car.
I
heard the happy chatter as they piled into Blue Beauty. I heard four
doors slam. Hail Mary full of grace ... The car started right up, a good sign. ... the Lord is with thee ... *heard kind of a "clunk" sound* .. hallowed be thy ...*sound of engine racing*.
Oh
shit! Dad started the engine, and restarted it several times. I heard
the hood being opened, some muttering ("What the Deuce?!?"), then
slamming shut. Then my bedroom door flew open.
"What? You're kidding?"
I think that's what I said when he asked me
to explain why his car would not back up. Then I confessed. But offered a
ray of hope and sunlight. (I am not making this up) "It still goes forward. We can push it out of the driveway, and you can go to DC, and not park where you have to back-up."
He was very, very pissed. Very pissed. It was a year before I paid
that off (mowing lawns). I still hate that fkn car. What a P.O.S.
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PS
- I used to drag race it at the US 40 Drag-strip in York, PA. When you
lost, which I always did on the first race, they threw a bucket of
water on your windshield to wash off your classification and number.
My dad would always ask on Sunday morning where I was to get "chalky stuff"
all over the hood last night? I would always answer, "I dunno."
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