My
first car was a 1963 Rambler. My dad
bought it for me in 1971 because I needed transportation to get from college to
my student teaching assignment.
A
boxy looking sedan, engineered by the American Motors Corporation to be
economical and sturdy, the Rambler was not exactly what I envisioned as my
first ride. A putrid pink, somewhere
between flesh color and throw up, I nearly fainted when Dad drove home with it.
On
one of my first outings, I turned the wheel too much while backing out of a
parking space and scraped the whole side of the car parked next to me. It looked like it had been hit by a
semi-truck. My car did not have one scratch.
Made
of solid iron, I named my pink baby El Tanque, the tank.
A
few weeks later, I t-boned a mustang that belonged to some high school football
hero who lived down the street from us. For
the record, the kid was at fault this time and not I, so he got the citation. I
was following him when he slowed down and rode along the curb on the right.
When he came to a complete stop, I started to pass him. It turned out he was making
a wide turn to the right before turning into his driveway on the left.
Thankfully, I wasn’t going too fast when I plowed into his driver’s door. This
was before seat belts, so the impact threw him into his passenger side and that
saved his life. His new Mustang was totaled and he was in crutches for several
months. The Rambler had a scratch of
paint on the bumper that came off with some Ajax.
When
I called home a week later to report I had been in another accident, my dad was
in good cheer because I was innocent once again. He said bad luck usually happens in threes, so
maybe this was it. This accident was caused by a woman who was not paying
attention to the traffic lights. While I waited for the light to change to
green, I noticed in my rear-view mirror that she was not going to stop, so I
jammed my foot on the brake and gripped the steering wheel. The woman hit me so hard, the Rambler jolted
and so did I. Once again, the Tank held
up but the woman’s car had to be towed away.
By
now the Rambler and I were infamous, a joke in the family. I prayed it would all stop before something
worse happened.
Not
long after that, I was in the middle of a busy street, waiting to turn left
into a parking lot, when suddenly, a man driving a motorcycle coming toward me
lost control of his bike. It went one
way and he flew straight into my windshield.
Like a rag doll, he barely made any noise on impact. He looked at me as he melted softly off the
right side of my hood unto the street.
I
was afraid to check on him, thinking he was dead, but an ambulance and the
police soon appeared and assured me the motorcyclist was okay, a few broken
bones, but nothing serious. When Dad got there, I cried. I bawled.
I wailed and I told him I thought the Rambler was cursed. He assured me that wasn’t true. It was just temporary bad luck and it would
all end soon. He said, one thing for sure, the Tank would keep me safe through
good or bad.
I
made him promise me that was true. He
laughed but he promised.
I kept that car for
almost ten years before I traded it in for a bigger family sedan. I had three children and we needed a new
vehicle. I cried when I gave it up. El Tanque and I were family. We had been through so much together, so many
trials and adventures. She wasn’t a beauty on the outside, but she was my first
car and my protector, and that made her special.
