"Life is a series of experiences, each one of which makes us bigger, even though sometimes it is hard to realize this” - Henry Ford

For reasons I can’t really explain, I’ve been thinking about my first car. The one that, as a teenager, I wanted to prove I was somehow cooler than I was. You car, after all, defined you right.

My parents, thankfully, weren’t the type to go out and buy me my first car. It certainly wasn’t from a lack of me wanting them to. Instead it was there way of teaching me the valuable lesson of earning your way to something you want. That being said, when the DadUnit was offered an opportunity for this car, he jumped at it. I mean who wouldn’t? The previous owner basically told dad, “If you tow it from the back yard – you can have it.” And so dad, being dad, towed the 1971 White Ford Country Squire station wagon (let’s not forget the wood paneling). He put 4 new tires on it and a fresh battery I think and handed me the keys.

Not exactly the car I had in mind. No, I wanted a much slicker Mustang of some type…1966 or 1967 convertible perhaps. Instead, the other Ford and I got along.

This car was a beast. And by “beast” I mean – I could fit 15 friends in it at once – not that I did that ever or anything (Hi Mom…thanks for stopping by). This car had black vinyl interior – which is AWESOME in Southern California. Yah, your thighs hitting that black vinyl on a hot day was like frying eggs in a skillet. I quickly purchased my first car accessory – a beach towel for the front seat.

Despite the hideousness of the look of the car, it did get me around, barely at times, but around all the same. It got like 8 gallons a mile too – and I’m not joking. Though back then gas was less than a dollar a gallon and school was only like 4 miles from home, so I could go for a bit on the gas I could afford to put into it.

I have two favorite stories surrounding this car. The first is about good friends of our family, Dick and Maryanne Holly, who came to visit. They drove up to our house in a motor home I think, to stay a week or so with us. Dick offered me a trade. If I’d let him and Maryanne use my car while they were here, he’d fill it up with gas before they left. To a teenager who never EVER filled it up past a quarter tank, this was like winning the gas lottery. “Of course you can use it,” I said in my most innocent of voices. The week progressed and Dick took the beast out to fill it up. Upon his return he looked white as a ghost and exclaimed that he never EVER would have made that offer if he’d known it had a 20 gallon tank. I stood silently with my sheepish grin in the corner.

The second story revolves around my BFF Laura. She and I at some point were inseparable. We did everything together. She and I had been out on a Friday night just doing teenage girl stuff and stopped to get some ice cream – cones to be exact. We didn’t stay at the ice cream shop for too long before we got this wide twig to drive up to the Manson Mansion. See the urban legend for our area was the house that Charles Manson and his followers lived in was just up a dirt road up a hill in our neck of the woods. So yah, hell yah, I was in. We got in the car, ice creams in hand (what? It was an automatic beast that basically drove itself…I didn’t have any problems with an ice cream cone in one hand and the steering wheel in the other) and off we went. Neither one of us really knew where this supposed house was, but we toodled our way into the dessert. Looking back now it was probably the dumbest thing we ever did because the car wasn’t exactly a 4wheel drive and overly reliable – and this was WAY before cell phones. We could have been stranded for weeks before anyone found us. But I digress.

So here we are toodling up a road, in the dark, out in a part of the desert not overly inhibited, when suddenly a garbage can was in the road. I swerved to miss it and hit it straight on. Slightly dazed and nervously giggling we dredged on. The warm black hard top road suddenly disappears into a narrow, slightly bumpy dirt road. I stopped the car. We stared at each other and quickly decided that was enough.

Now, the Ford Country Squire Station Wagon had a turning radius of well – I guess you could say – it didn’t have one. There was no way to turn around. So I had to back all the way down this road/hill, in the dark, in a very uninhabited part of the desert. Of course, all the while we were freaking ourselves out by stories of getting lost out there and what if there were still Manson followers up there. I didn’t think that ford could get to the speed we got it to to get home.

I only really got in trouble once that I recall with that car too. The “rule” of the house was I could ONLY drive it to school on days we had rifle practice (I was in the band color guard – rifle captain to be exact). Well, on one particular day I decided to drive it to school. We didn’t have practice, but I knew I would be home WAY before mom and dad were. It was a normal sunny, windy day in Quartz Hill – but it was a bit dark for when I had to get to school. I left the lights on. Though I didn’t realize I had left the lights on until ALL the busses had left for the day. I don’t really even remember how I got home. I just know dad had to take me BACK to school to jump the car. Let me tell you, 4 miles doesn’t seem very long normally. But when you’re in a car with a VERY pissed off dad who never yelled, but lectured…that four miles could take a lifetime. I’m sure I was grounded for that one.

I make fun of the car, but secretly I was proud to have something to call my own. It wasn’t bright and shiny, or brand new, but it was very functional. It served its purpose. And it will forever be a part of my memories.