Dad knew I longed for my own set of wheels at the beginning of my senior year in high school; he knew I had socked away most of my hard earned summer cash I had sweated for by mowing lawns and being his "go-fer" on his moonlighting heating and air conditioning jobs.
He knew of a twilight car auction just south of Atlanta where I would not be able to get the car of my dreams, the new Ford Mustang, but where, with my meager savings, I might be able to find something with four wheels, a frame, an engine, a transmission and a body with enough life still in it to at least get me back and forth to school and
anywhere else my 16 year old desire might take me, as long as it was not too far.
So, for $96, I became a car owner that night.
Our winning bid was $100; Dad generously covered my $4 deficit.
"I'll try to help you keep it running, but you got to buy your own gas," Dad advised.
Back then gasoline was $.25 a gallon and they pumped it for you, checked your oil and wiped your windshield, so I was not dismayed too much when told I would have to foot the fuel bill.
Keeping the Rambler running was a challenge; she did not ramble very well. She came from coastal South Carolina where we believed the previous owner had run her into the salty surf. The salt had caused the Unibody to become disunified.
She was a rust cake, but did have a strong sounding six-cylinder engine and I had hope, inspired by the man who accepted our bid. He weighed every bit of 350 pounds and when he squeezed behind the wheel she squeaked and groaned in protest but held up well enough, so we figured if the car survived his bulk it would be okay.
Little did we know.
The rust, alas, had done its work and it took all of Dad's welding skills to keep her from falling apart. The Rambler had an innovative starting system that no longer innovated after we got her home. What you did was turn the ignition on, then pull the gearshift toward you and that started the car, but salt had done its work on that too.
"We'll have to rig something up," Dad said.
He cut the cord off an old table lamp and ran it from the ignition to the battery. The result was a starting procedure that required two people.
It worked sort of like this.
The driver would sit behind the wheel, turn the ignition key, and cry out, "Switch on!" The passenger, holding the converted lamp cord, would cry out in reply, "Contact!", place the exposed cord wiring on the battery pole, and the Rambler would crank up.
No problem. She cranked every time.
It's just that I had a car I had to start like it was a World War I airplane, but that was okay. I thought it was kind of romantic.
Now, you could crank the Rambler by yourself but you had to be careful not to park on an incline. The emergency brake was broken and the parking gear could not cope with gravity.
A few days before graduation day at a hillside gas station where I had bought a tank full of that good old $.25 a gallon gasoline the Rambler got loose. I had turned the ignition on and run around front to make "contact."
But I had overlooked the gravity problem.
She cranked but started rolling backwards and it took all my track team speed to jump in and slam on the brakes just before she rolled out into the road.
Well, that did it.
I told Dad what happened and he decided he did not want to lose his graduating senior before he got his Class of 1964 diploma, so we went over to a used car dealer buddy of his. He fixed me up with a sleek 1957 Ford Fairlane with a smooth 8-cylinder engine, an emergency brake and parking gear that worked and hardly any rust.
Dad told me it was my graduation present.
"I'll sign for it but you got to make the payments and you still got to buy your own gas," he reminded me.
I had a summer job lined up and was not worried about the payments and, remember,gas was only a quarter a gallon.
http://accesswdun.com/article/2006/6/108498