My very first car

I was turning sixteen, and like every sixteen-year-old in America, I wanted a car. The answer from my parents? Always the same. “No.” Or my dad’s favorite: “Save your money and buy your own.”

Then one afternoon, everything changed. I heard the rumble of a tow truck outside. Dad was standing in the driveway, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Behind the tow truck was… well… a beast.

A 1971 Ford Country Squire. With wood paneling.

Oh Lord.

This thing had clearly lived several lives before arriving at ours. It was massive. Faded. Slightly sad. It smelled like it had opinions about disco.

Dad proudly announced that a buddy of his said it was ours. Free. Completely free! “All it needs is a new battery and four new tires,” he said cheerfully.

He offered to cover those. My responsibility? Pay the difference in insurance for being added to their policy, plus maintenance and gas.

Deal.

The car was enormous. It could seat nine people—which meant it could seat nine teenagers. Suddenly, its size felt less embarrassing and more legendary.

We got it running. Dad filled the tank for the first time. And just like that, I had wheels.

There was one rule: I could only drive it to school on days I had band practice. I mostly followed that rule. Mostly.

Some of My Favorite “Country Squire” Memories

1. The Gas Tank Incident

Our family friends Dick and Marianne Holly were visiting. Dick struck a deal with me: if he could use my car while they were in town, he’d fill up the tank. Done. At the end of their trip, Dick stormed into the house looking completely flustered.

“You didn’t tell me it had a 20-gallon tank!”

Honestly? I didn’t know. That tank had never been full under my ownership. My gas strategy was simple: feed it spare dollars and hope for the best.

2. The Manson House Adventure

One night, Laura and I decided it would be a brilliant idea to drive out toward the Manson house in Quartz Hill. It was pitch black. No streetlights. Just a long, dark road. And then… the car started fluttering. Not fully dying. Just threatening us.

We turned that long boat of a station wagon around as fast as physics would allow and got out of there before it left us stranded in horror-movie territory. We did not look back.

3. The Permit Prayer

One summer day, I decided I needed a sandwich from a grocery store about a mile away. I still only had my permit. But surely no one would know. I’d be quick. I made it there. But when I tried to leave? The car flooded. I sat in that massive driver’s seat, alone, praying like my life depended on it.

“God, if you let this car start, I swear I will never do this again.”

It started. And I never did. Looking back, that old wood-paneled land yacht wasn’t just transportation. It was freedom. It was friendships crammed into bench seats. It was small rebellions, big lessons, and the smell of gasoline and possibility.

That 1971 Ford Country Squire may not have been the car I dreamed of at sixteen.

But it was exactly the one I needed. 

Plot Twist: The Toe Saga Continues

So… it turns out I have a stubborn infection hanging out in/around my pinky toe joint.

Because of course I do.

I genuinely thought I was nearing the finish line. The wound was healing — slowly, yes — but healing. I had mentally circled the end of March as my “freedom date.” I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Apparently, that light was just the reflection off an X-ray machine.

A couple of weeks ago, I went back to the podiatrist for what I assumed would be a routine check-in. He took one look and wasn’t thrilled.

“This should be further along,” he said That’s never what you want to hear.

He sent me for X-rays to see if there was still an infection lurking around. And sure enough… there it was. Still alive. Still thriving. Apparently unimpressed by the army of antibiotics I had already thrown at it.

You would think nothing could survive that level of pharmaceutical warfare.

You would be wrong.

Next option? Surgery. Remove the joint.

Ugh.

Surgery day arrived. We checked in, waited in pre-op, did the whole hospital shuffle. The doctor came in to go over the plan one more time.

He examined my toe and casually asked: “So are we taking the whole toe or just the joint?”

I’m sorry… what?

That was not previously presented as Option A.

As far as I was concerned, we were removing the joint. I’m still fairly attached to my toe — literally and emotionally — and would prefer amputation to remain a last resort.

He nodded, signed my leg, and said he’d see me in the operating room.

Which, oddly enough, I had to walk to myself. Nothing like strolling into your own surgery with your white butt cheeks hanging out the hospital gown.

They placed me on what can only be described as the world’s least comfortable table. The anesthesiologist explained she’d start with oxygen and then the “sleepy gas.”

She put the mask on and asked, “What’s your favorite vacation?”

I never answered.

Didn’t get a word out.

Lights out.

The next thing I knew, I was in recovery.

Phase 1 for about 15 minutes. Then Phase 2, where Janet met me. The nurse gave us post-op instructions, and just like that, we were heading home.

From my perspective? Everything went smoothly.

Minimal pain (thank God). No drama. No horror stories.

Now we wait.

The doctor did say there’s still a chance I could need another surgery. But I’m choosing hope. I’m choosing to believe this one did the trick.

The first surgery was done cautiously. The hope was that removing the initial problem area, combined with antibiotics, would wipe out the infection throughout the toe.

It didn’t.

So, this time, they removed the joint entirely and sent samples for culture.

And this time? We got an answer.

Enterococcus.

Finally — a specific bacteria with a name and a targeted antibiotic to fight it. I’m now on medication designed specifically for that stubborn little invader. And that gives me something I’ve needed through this whole saga:

Hope.

Maybe this was the missing piece.
Maybe this was the right move.
Maybe this is the beginning of the real recovery.

I am more than ready to put this chapter behind me.

Fingers crossed. Toes… still crossed too.