The Absent Uncle: Those first cars ...

One of the favorite topics for old guys when they start to get to know a new fellow is to bring up the subject of their first car. It is a subject that doesn’t cross political lines, a subject that can suggest many other topics to discuss and always brings back good memories.

My next-door neighbor is entering the danger zone; his daughter has just gotten her license, and as I have mentioned before, he is fastidious about his cars. Appearance and the care of his two-car fleet is front and center. Plus, now the expense of car insurance is right there with keeping them clean and polished.

I can certainly share his concern with an inexperienced driver taking the wheel of expensive vehicles here in the Houston area. Circumstances are so different today from my first car to my son’s first drive, and the stories my wife tells me about her first driving experiences in San Diego. 

Growing up in a Minnesota farm setting made driving part of life from probably about 6 or so years of age. Driving a tractor in the fields was expected and gained the experience to become a licensed driver pretty easy. My old ’53 Pontiac bought for $45 from a family friend was a pretty low investment in my early mobility. I guess my folks added me to the insurance policy they had on the other cars and until I was through high school, I didn’t really think about that expense. 

The old Pontiac gave way to a Rambler, then a Mercury, and finally my dream car – a ’67 Ford Fairlane XL (a 2-door hardtop, bucket seats, fire engine red with a black vinyl top!). 

All paid for with part-time and summer jobs. And then I was off to the Navy.

Our son started with a four-door Geo. Standard transmission, and everything worked just fine. He quickly progressed from there – all on his dime – and my insurance. We lived in a rural area, so his first driving experiences were not very pressure-filled urban fast-lane times.

Sherrill grew up in San Diego and learned how to drive in an old Corvair that her Uncle Al provided her and showed her how to drive. It was a stick shift and presented a number of challenges to her that she mastered with some interesting stories – some with close calls – to tell. The stories that clutch could tell about being ridden and abused. But she became a very good driver – one that I became quite comfortable with napping during her shift behind the wheel on a long drive.

When we met in 1978, she was driving an old stick shift Volvo (the Corvair had succumbed to the abuse taken over many years, both from her and the previous owners) and I with my ’62 VW Bus. Neither car was a head-turner by any stretch of the imagination. But we both remember those cars fondly and how they always seemed to get us where we were going.