My first car was a Chevrolet Corvair. A 1960 model I believe, but I may be wrong about that. Tan inside and out. Used. About $400.00. Just something to use to go away to college and learn to be a surveyor. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Legally it was not my car. It was registered with the state in my dad’s name. I’m sure it had something to do with insurance rates.

I came to know that car very well because it had its problems, but in the 1960’s a regular Joe, if he took the notion into his head, could make most repairs himself the way my Dad did. Just start taking the problem area apart until you find something that looks broken. Definitely not a job for the impatient! Without computers and printed circuit boards problems were much more identifiable, and unlike today there wasn’t intense social pressure to always have the new, the “in style” model. In fact the ability to make repairs, to fix broken cars, appliances etc., was a most desirable trait. Making repairs to that car by myself went a long way toward building my self confidence and getting me started on the do-it-yourself road of life. That appealed greatly to me then as it still does today. Doing for yourself is what I believe freedom is all about.

That simple old car probably collected more coats of wax than all the cars I’ve had since put together. It taught me the pride I could feel from what the army, later in my life, called ”look sharp, feel sharp.” At the time I entertained no such noble or practical thoughts. I kept it up because I was in college and wanted to impress girls. I was convinced that they didn’t care what kind of car a guy had as long as he had one and took care of it. Maybe it was true, hard to say.

I remember when I had to call my Dad from college because the transmission gave out. He came and arranged for a shop to replace it with a used one from another junker. It was to big of a job for us to handle on the side of the road. The noise, now that was another story. It came from the rear end of the car, but I could tell it wasn’t something in the rear engine compartment. It was the sound of something heavy clunking around. It was a sound I’ve now learned to identify as the grinding away of bearings gone bad. The lower the pitch the bigger the part, and that sound was definitely bass (The transmission went with the sound of a gunshot then nothing. It died instantly never knowing what hit it). This sound grew more fearful with every turn of a wheel.