Driving Me Crazy #2

It's time for another car story.
      I love being in cars. Cars have always been a symbol of freedom for me. As a teen, I didn't really have a life away from my family, no friends and no parties. I wasn't allowed to work or get my driver's license until I was 18. I was pretty much a captive in my parent's disfunctional and often violent house. Then, on that magic 18th birthday, my life changed. I got my first job bringing in my own money and started learning to drive. I learned to drive in my dad's 1965 Plymouth Valiant. The transmission was three on the column. I loved that car. Though, I did manage to do a lot of damage to that poor car in my earlier driving years, it always pulled through.
      The day I got my license and was going on my first drive on my own, my dad insisted on guiding me down the curvy driveway. Now I had been successfully navigating that driveway for months and didn't need his help, but I knew I had better go along with it, if I wanted to take the car out that day. He kept waving me back, back, I hesitated and he said, "you have plenty of room," then “Whoa, stop! Stop!” as I hit the neighbors’ drywall sending it into their yard like a line of dominos, which would become almost a recurring theme.
      A few weeks later, I was driving around with a friend, partying in that car. There were no places to go hang out when I was a teen other than our cars or the local ice cream parlors. Obviously, we couldn’t party in the ice cream shops, so we drove around. Traveling down Frog Town Road, a particularly windy road, my friend instructed me to hold the wheel straight and lean her way for a minute to take a hit off a roach. Although I did hesitate, my attention was diverted for a few crucial moments as I leaned over, taking a good strong hit and holding the wheel straight.  Suddenly, I noticed that the car seemed to be kind of bumpy, and I was having a hard time controlling it, so I pulled into a side street and got out. I almost fell over when I saw that the whole driver’s side front fender and hood were bashed in. The reason it was bumpy was that the fender was cutting into the tire. I quickly took the tire iron out of the back and bent the bumper out enough to safely drive it back to the scene of the accident, where I discovered I had taken down a telephone pole. It was lying across the road, blocking both sides. I realized that while I was holding the wheel straight, the road had taken a curve. I quickly drove to the Dairy Queen where a few friends worked, It was also where all the gear heads hung out. That parking lot was a popular hangout. The whole gang was there, and we came up with a plan. The guys in the DQ let us use some rags and water so we could wash the creosote off. The we got to work pulling the wooden splinters out of the frame. Someone even had a rubber mallet to bend and shape the fender more so it looked like a vehicle had hit me. I concocted a story about being at Friendly’s when we heard a crash, ran out and saw a truck racing away. It was a hit and run. Of course it was moving too fast for me to see the license plate, but my dad insisterd on taking me down to the police station to file a hit and run report. As we were getting ready to leave for the station, he bent down and picked out a stray piece of wood that we had missed. I quickly remembered that the truck had a homemade wooden bumper, and off we went to file the report. That car was eventually turned over to me years later and almost made a cross-country trip. I have so many fond memories of it from two very different times in my life. I always thought it ironic that I often got in trouble for things I didn't do because of my mother's penchant for inventing transgressions that led to my dad's leather belt, but I got away with this. Years later I confessed to my dad and asked if he really believed my story. He said, "I always thought it was a little fishy.". 
      So, flash forward a few years. I now owned the car, and Paul and I were preparing to make another cross-country trip. It was 1978 and, after living back in my hometown of Stamford, Connecticut for a year and a half, we were ready to go back out west. Our friend Debbie had decided to come with us, and we planned to head out in two days with three adults and our 2 1/2-year old daughter, in that small but reliable and well-loved Valiant. I decided to drive out with my daughter to North Stamford to visit a good friend’s mother one last time and say goodbye. On the way home, the car started making a hellacious noise, then a big clunk, then rolled to a stop. I was able to roll it onto the narrow shoulder then hitched a ride home for us. Ugh! What would we do now? I called my mother, who had fingers in every pie and was everyone's friend. She garage to come get the car that afternoon and found us another, slightly bigger Valiant that afternoon. It looked like we were all set to go.
      However, the next morning, as we were packing the last of our belongings, we got a call from our friend and traveling companion. She was getting back together with her ex-boyfriend and wanted him to come along. Now that four-door sedan car would carry 4 adults and a child plus all of the belongings we could manage to cram in. We finally agreed to take him along, knowing it would be tense but also welcoming the extra financial help. I hung up the phone when the doorbell rang. At the door were two local policemen. They wanted to arrest me for leaving the scene of an accident. It takes a lot to make me break down, but this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I collapsed into a puddle of tears, leaving Paul to step outside and talk to the cops.
      Apparently, the tow truck never came and overnight the car was pushed into the ravine probably by some mischievous teenagers. It crashed through the residents’ stone wall and came to a stop nose down in their river. Now the police were here to take me away. We managed to get the garage to admit their failure and, probably in no small part due to my dad’s notoriety in town and my mom’s persuasive ways, they let me go. We successfully made the not uneventful trip to Washington State with the trunk full and the floor of the back seat packed level with the seats. But that’s a story for another time. As we were packing the last few items, I removed the spare tire to make more room. This horrified my mother, who was already horrified at the prospect of us embarking on this latest adventure, taking her only grandchild with us. I assured her that it would be fine. “Don’t worry, Mom. We won’t need the tire.” And, we didn’t.

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      I’ve owned many cars since then and have learned how to maintain them. I know where the batteries are, though I no longer have to check the water level. I know how to track my gas mileage, check my tire pressure and my oil and other fluid levels. I understand how they run and have even done minor repairs such as changing various lights, windshield wipers and even the fuel filter. I’m so glad that girls are no longer expected to be dumb and can now learn about these things in school. Having more knowledge would have saved me a lot of hassles, but then I wouldn’t have had some of these stories to tell.

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