Sometime in the very early 70's, Dad bought a car off a Naval officer who was being transferred overseas. The car was a yellow, 1970 model year Mustang coupe with a 302 small block. I couldn't have been more than a year or two old, and I definitely didn't realize how closely that car would be intertwined in my life.
For the longest time it was our only vehicle, and it served faithfully whether it was getting groceries at the base commissary or hauling household goods to a new duty station across the country. It wasn't all work, though. I have all the family albums, and as I look through the photos of vacations, picnics, or just going fishing with Dad, you'd see the Mustang in the background.
Before Dad taught me how to drive in that car, he taught me how to work on it. I spent countless hours under the hood with him holding a flashlight and handing him the tools he asked for. Under his tutelage, and with a well worn Chilton's manual as a reference, I learned how to change everything from the fluids to the spark plugs, replace the brakes, set the timing, and pack the bearings. Looking back, these weren't just car repairs. They were a series of life lessons in self confidence, independence, and self reliance. Dad was the teacher, and the Mustang was the classroom.
Years later, college was behind me, I was married, and I was working at an actual job. Things were golden when I got a call from Mom. Andrea was actually the one who answered, and when she passed me the phone, she had tears in her eyes. I knew instinctively we'd lost Dad.
At his funeral, I delivered his eulogy. It basically consisted of me telling stories about Mom, Dad, me, and the Mustang. Kim Reinike, our long time neighbor was there. I explained how much Dad loved that car, and I told those present that I would be driving the Mustang as the procession's lead vehicle instead of riding in the back of some rented Cadillac. Kim smiled and nodded approvingly.
Currently the Mustang is sitting in our driveway, and she needs some work. Actually, she needs a lot of work, and I'll eventually get to it. But it will be a very odd feeling working on her alone. Meanwhile, word traveled through the "car guy grapevine" about this worn down '70 Mustang sitting idle in this guy's driveway. As a result, I've had more offers than I care to count to sell her.
Honestly, my first inclination is anger, and I want to tell them to go fuck themselves. But I stop and tell myself to breathe. They. Don't. Know. They don't know this car's history. They don't know the miles of asphalt and life that we've seen in that rearview mirror, that its past is my past, and that it's one of my few physical, tenuous links to Dad. So I smile, shake my head, and say, "Sorry, friend, she's not for sale."
Years later, college was behind me, I was married, and I was working at an actual job. Things were golden when I got a call from Mom. Andrea was actually the one who answered, and when she passed me the phone, she had tears in her eyes. I knew instinctively we'd lost Dad.
At his funeral, I delivered his eulogy. It basically consisted of me telling stories about Mom, Dad, me, and the Mustang. Kim Reinike, our long time neighbor was there. I explained how much Dad loved that car, and I told those present that I would be driving the Mustang as the procession's lead vehicle instead of riding in the back of some rented Cadillac. Kim smiled and nodded approvingly.
Currently the Mustang is sitting in our driveway, and she needs some work. Actually, she needs a lot of work, and I'll eventually get to it. But it will be a very odd feeling working on her alone. Meanwhile, word traveled through the "car guy grapevine" about this worn down '70 Mustang sitting idle in this guy's driveway. As a result, I've had more offers than I care to count to sell her.
Honestly, my first inclination is anger, and I want to tell them to go fuck themselves. But I stop and tell myself to breathe. They. Don't. Know. They don't know this car's history. They don't know the miles of asphalt and life that we've seen in that rearview mirror, that its past is my past, and that it's one of my few physical, tenuous links to Dad. So I smile, shake my head, and say, "Sorry, friend, she's not for sale."
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