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.