My Dream Car

To my father’s eternal shame, I am not a car guy. He taught me how to fix them but couldn’t make me love them. The family photo albums were full of old pictures of my dad with his cars. I was impressed by the ’51 Ford, the ’57 Chevy, and the ’68 Camaro. Dad’s cars were cool, at least until he had a bunch of kids. My car obsession was short-lived. By the time I turned 15, I was over it.

That is when I bought my first pickup truck. A month before I turned fifteen, I scraped together $1,600 from mowing lawns to buy a silver 1976 Chevrolet Silverado. It was a single-cab, long-bed with 196,000 miles on it. It was beautiful, and it was mine. I named her Silver, after The Lone Ranger’s horse. That truck was my dream vehicle.

I was ready to show her off after adding some chrome rims, an amplifier, and a pair of Jensen Triaxial speakers. The red leather bench seat allowed my girlfriend to sit right next to me in the cab. There was also a sliding window in the back that enabled beers to be easily passed from the bed to the cab. That came in handy on long road trips. What else could a small-town boy want in a vehicle?

I got a driver's license using the hardship exemption on the day I turned fifteen. My hardship was that I really wanted to be able to drive myself places. They didn’t seem to care. That license meant freedom, much of which was abused.

We spent weekend nights in the Kmart parking lot, sitting on the tailgate, drinking beer, listening to music, and desperately trying to hook up. I got caught parking one night, and the cop said he knew my grandfather. He let us off with a warning, and I begged him not to tell. That truck was terrific.

I had seven small wrecks by the time I turned sixteen. My father threatened to hang old tires around the perimeter of the truck the way they do on fishing piers. I drove Silver until I left for college. I’ve had many, many cars, trucks, and jeeps since then, but I can’t say that any of them have been as meaningful to me as that ’76 Silverado.