the earliest memory i have of my first car is from when i was about 4-years old. i remember how huge it was, how awesome and powerful-looking and how i always thought it was the perfect car because it was my daddy’s car. and he drove it (and sometimes let my mom drive it) and there was nothing better than riding in that big, beastly thing. all the other cars on the road were nothing compared to this thing, and it was magnificent to look at. i remember pointedly stating that it should be my car (when i was older, kind of…) and to my surprise, my dad said yes. of course, he could have just been humoring me, but i believed him. and, of course, i made sure that he didn’t forget it. and i didn’t care that it was already considered an “old” car by then, i couldn’t help it. so pretty, so powerful. i was smitten.
about ten or so years down the road, it was true. the car was mine. of course, all those years sitting, lying in wait, it took a lot of work and effort and elbow-grease to get the ol’ girl running again. a LOT of work, actually. and there’s something to be said for learning to drive in a big car (and this ol’ girl was a TANK). i can park nearly anything, now. driving modern cars, sedans, coupes, whatever, they’re a piece of cake. even pickups don’t daunt me now. and i went through so, so much in this car. it was amazing, and sometimes it was a total pain in the ass, but it was mine.
it was gorgeous.
and i loved it.
even when it didn’t run and was a rusted out shitbox and falling the fuck apart…
i loved it.
mine :
