Like most sixteen year old boys, I couldn’t wait to get that one thing that would allow me to escape,

…that would allow me to find my freedom and see the world.  Well, the streets of my small hometown anyway.  Getting one’s driver’s license is no doubt one of the most exciting things for any teenager’s life.   Mine was no different.

In 1972, it was a little different.

We didn’t have to worry about people talking on phones while driving and certainly didn’t have to worry about people texting while driving.  In 1972, the term had not even been coined yet.  The biggest thing we had to worry about was finding enough money to pay for the thirty eight cents a gallon gas to put into whatever we were able to get the keys for.  Most cars didn’t even have seat belts and certainly no shoulder harness restraints.  And air conditioning was an “option.”

So I took the written test and got my permit.  We had to wait until we were actually sixteen to even get the permit, not like today.  Today’s teenagers can get a permit six months or a year before they turn sixteen.  So, unlike today, we were rushed to get as much practice in as possible.  Driver’s education was just beginning to come into vogue in the early 70s – not in my town though.

Anyway, I remember practicing for the driver’s test.  My uncle had an old ’59 Dodge he let me drive, under his adult supervision, of course.  My grandfather also supervised my driving skills even though he had only recently begun driving again himself after a twenty plus year hiatus from driving.  I grew up until I was about fourteen before we actually had a family car.  And what a beast it was – a 1966 Pontiac Catalina station wagon, forest green, no air-conditioning and no shoulder harness restraints.  It had seat belts but they were never used.  I’d even heard that some people actually cut them out of their cars – such a hindrance.

The big day came and I took the driving test in that big green station wagon and passed.  WooHoo – Definitely a day to celebrate!  And having passed this milestone, the next milestone in my quest for freedom had already taken birth.  I had to have my very own vehicle.  The station wagon was big and safe, but come on; it was a big green station wagon after all.  I’d never get a girl to go on a date in that, would I?

I couldn’t believe I’d actually gotten my driver’s license on the first try – even with the parallel parking task required at the time.  I never imagined there would someday be vehicles with parking assist- whatever that is, but I have heard there are cars now that can actually park themselves.

I’d had a job, actually a few jobs by the time I was sixteen – a paper route, the A&W, some others, and I had just started working at the local Kroger store.  I was saving some money, but at a buck sixty an hour it took a while to save anything substantial.

I’d managed to put away a couple of hundred bucks, when my uncle – the same one that let me drive his old Dodge, came over and told me he knew someone that had a car for sale, cheap – the operative word.

You couldn’t go online and look at cars like you can today, but had to actually go the person’s house to look at the car.  So off we went in his old Dodge.  The guy was asking $100 for the car – a black, 1960 Ford Galaxie 500.  Four doors and about 80,000 miles.  Not bad for a twelve year old car.  But this was 1972 and when a car got that many miles on it, it was about ready for the junk yard.  The interior was ratty; the headliner was drooping and unattached in several places.  The tires were nearly bald.  The paint was scratched, but there weren’t any dents; well no major ones anyway.  And it started.  My uncle and I test drove it. The owner rode in the back seat.  I guess he wanted to make sure we weren’t going to steal his prize or anything.

Oh, I almost forgot.  It didn’t have power steering or power brakes either.  But silly me, that was the norm for cars built in 1960.

Those things would have been “options” if they indeed were even invented at the time.  And the AM radio didn’t work.  No air conditioning either.  The joke then was that it had two sixty air conditioning or in the case of this big black piece of Detroit craftsmanship, four sixty – four doors and all.  You’d roll the windows down, manually with crank handles and accelerate to 60 mph, (not easy in this behemoth) and that was your four sixty air conditioning.  I tested that later with some horrific results – that drooping, unattached headliner became fully unattached from the ceiling and one of my cousins in the backseat took the raggedly thing and yes, threw it out the window.  I know we littered, but it was 1972 an even that was viewed differently.  Besides, I’m sure that given the stage of its deterioration, it probably completely eroded away within a few days.

So we rode around town for a few blocks and went back to the guy’s house.  My uncle and I had already pre-planned our “pitch”.  And so the negotiating began.  I offered $75.  The man countered with $95.  We settled on $90.

My first car – a $90 piece of…oh well you get the idea.  But it was mine – all mine.

I owned a car – a car with big black fins, balding tires, a broken radio and a life expectancy probably measured in months.

I loved it.  I found some freedom.  I cruised Broadway in her with a full load of fellow teenage passengers, all mostly cousins, who always had to chip in a buck or two for gas.  I had her for a few months and upgraded to a 1966, $600, Chevrolet Bel Air.  Now I had something to be proud of.  The old Ford – Well, I sold her to that uncle after his old Dodge finally gave up the ghost.  No bickering; $90, SOLD!

That was the beginning of my love for cars.

And now nearly fifty years later, I’ve owned probably fifty cars, trucks and motorcycles and if I could have an eight car garage, it would always be full of both old and new vehicles of all types.

Thanks for reading…..

Paul