I was fortunate. My folks found a car for $600 (lots of dough for my parents to fork out to their kid) and it was sitting in my driveway a few weeks before my birthday. Until I became a legal driver, I spent hours sitting silently at the wheel of that monstrosity--a 1965 Dodge Polara. I guess my parents felt I was more safe in the event of an accident because the old girl was so solid. The Dodge was extremely long--you could be going 55 mph, hit a pothole, and count to 10 before the back wheels would bump! I mean, it was looooong--a gas hog, too! She was light brown with near-perfect upholstery. The owner before me probably was an old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays. As a physical specimen, the Dodge was mint. We had to do a few minor repairs on the engine, but she was ready to rock the highway when I got my license.
I was financially responsible for the insurance, gas and upkeep. So, with my job at the animal clinic, after expenses, my first priority was to install a cassette player. There was no place to fit my new stereo into the ancient dash configuration, so I left it sitting open, wires and all, on the hump between the driver and passenger seats. The rear speakers seemed like a mile away as the music reflected off the glass from the rear deck. I dreamed of how cool I'd look driving into the Buena Park High School student parking lot--stereo blaring and friends in tow. It was heaven. I was ready to take Fullerton by storm!.
At one point, I asked a girl on a date. I picked her up and we had a picnic in a park near her home. I felt like a million bucks. When I drove my date through her neighborhood on the way home, she slumped down into the spacious area in front of the passenger seat. I thought she had fallen, but actually she was hiding and didn't want her friends to see her in this big, old car. I had never thought of my car as embarrassing--until then I was proud. But now I was self-conscious. In an instant, I looked at my new ride as a land yacht. It was certainly gigantic, but it now seemed hideous. I wanted to get out and just walk away. It was a moment that intensified my lack of self confidence. These times can be devastating. I felt like I was wearing the coat of many colors Dolly Parton sang about. I was proud of it until someone's opinion convinced me otherwise.
Over the next few months I forgot and left the windows open too many times as the car sat in the driveway over night. Rain soaked the pristine interior causing the seat fabric to eventually disintegrate. But still, she was my rolling freedom train. When I got a job at a paper box factory the next year, I drove all over Los Angeles making deliveries, dodging oncoming cars, curbs, fire hydrants, and pedestrians, nervously navigating the mysteries of the big, forbidden city. The Polara was a friend to me and gave me my first sense of adventure, ownership and responsibility. It helped me learn to care for an object of value. That car got me through high school and into my first stab at college. I left home in January of 1980 to make a new home on the road as a musician. By that time I think the car had been sold. Looking back, she was abused. But it was a time of learning--of tasting the fruit of hard work. I tend to prefer smaller cars, mostly because of the savings in fuel expense. But I will always cherish my land yacht and those magical times that summer.
Just like my beloved 1965 Dodge Polara--except mine was brown.
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