They say you never forget your first love. Well, I’ll never forget my first car. I had turned 16 and was the third child. Since there are only so many cars a parent can afford while also thinking about paying for college, I got my dad’s old Ford Country Squire station wagon with wood paneling on the side that was similar to the wood paneling in our den and a cassette player with radio.

I had many names for it: The Tank, The Grocery Getter, Mammoth Machine. {sigh} I loved her dearly.

I loved her because she was so huge. So what if she got only six miles to the gallon? I could cram in 20 friends and head to a concert at the coliseum or pack up the car full of beach gear and still fit all my roommates inside. In addition, she was perfect for tailgate parties. I even slept in the car once when a hotel I planned to stay at was full. And, in spite of my lead foot, I never got a speeding ticket.

Think about it. Have you ever seen a cop pull over an old falling-apart station wagon? Me neither. They probably saw me zooming down the highway and figured I was some geezer who was too old to make out the speed limit signs. (At least, that’s what I was hoping for every time I drove by a speed trap with my fingers crossed.)

The Tank resided mostly at my dad’s house while I went away to school. But when I came home one Spring Break, my beloved gas guzzler was gone. My dad had sold her for a mere $300.

I was furious. Wasn’t she supposed to be mine? I wasn’t consoled by the fact that the transmission was shot and would have cost more to replace than the car was worth. I wanted that car! And, since it was Spring Break, I wanted any car — for the moment.

My dad hates confrontations, so he said I could drive his 1963 Corvette for that week only just so I’d have transportation.

I got into my first accident 20 minutes later.

By: KJ Mushung

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