I think my father would have taught me everything he knew if he had lived long enough. As it is, I have to be content with what he passed on before his too-early death at 56. Maybe if I could have taught him all I now know about nutrition he would still be alive. But that is not how life works. For most of us, we outlive our parents. Often we do it by building and expanding on the knowledge they give us.
What I learned from my father can't be weighed in numbers or volume. Much of it has to do with philosophy and wit. Because of his cars, I learned to never give up my dreams. While learning to drive, I think I also learned a lot of what NOT to do. I ran my first stop sign with my dad as co-pilot.
When my father first came to Oregon in the 1940s, he drove a brand new, shiny red Ford convertible. Every cop on the road stopped him. My mother claims to this day that they stopped him because no one in Oregon had ever seen a convertible before. They weren't sold here because they'd be too impractical: the weather was too cold for swimming pools and people would only rust. Knowing my father, though, I contend that they stopped him because he drove too fast. Much too fast.
By the time I was born, he was a family man and his cars had become family vehicles. Still, our cars only had two doors. Mom said it was so the kids couldn't fall out but I know it's because Dad couldn't give up EVERY vestage of a hot car. They may have had to accommodate a family, but they didn't have to be too old-looking and stodgy. In 1956 he bought a new Mercury. My mother loved it. Cars were getting bigger and heavier and this one was about as big and heavy as they came. Size was, after all, a measure of affluence. Back then cars were built to withstand possible collisions with log trucks which were plentiful on narrow Oregon highways. You could play bumper cars with anything on the road in that Merc and know you'd be the winner.
But, to my father's chagrin, Mom wouldn't even consider a RED car. Why, women might think he was single if he drove a two-door red car. It had to be black. Kind of like a hearse, I think, though less stately, letting everyone know he was no longer in circulation. Cars like that built stamina and muscles. Power steering wasn't invented yet and driving a car that heavy any distance became an exercise in physical endurance and upper body strength. My father did not love that car, but he got used to its superior weight and began to feel invincible on the highways and freeways.
Daddy was always a Ford man but one day in 1961 he spotted a car he couldn't resist and it was, of all things, a Chevy. He despised the disloyalty he recognized within himself and tried to resist, but he continued to lust after that car. Finally giving up the battle, he bought and drove home a shiny, new, two-door, RED Impala. Mom was horrified. Why, what would people think? Women would assume he was available if he drove that hot car around. It absolutely did NOT fit her image or the image she had created for him. She adamantly refused to ride in it which, for my father, may have been the best part of the fantasy even though my sister and brother and I clamored to join him and were always welcome.
In the driver's seat of that Impala, my father stayed invincible. He also renewed his love of speed. The speedometer only went to 120 but Dad KNEW his car could do better than that. He began tailgating at 70 mph on the freeways because he wanted to go 85 or 90. Surprisingly he never had an accident. My boyfriend swore it's because everyone recognized that flying Impala and pulled over to the shoulder if they caught sight of it coming. Accident rates went down generally in our area as drivers became more cautious and observant. It's amazing the impact one flying red Impala can have on a population! There was a day several years later when Dad beat a GTO on the open freeway. Man was he proud. The GTO had a speedometer that went to 140!
My folks still had the Merc, though, and that was the car I learned to drive in. I remember putzing my way through town when I was 17 with Dad in the passenger seat. Suddenly he began saying, "Watch it! Watch it! Watch it!" and his voice rose and he was more agitated each time he said it. I looked nervously around to catch sight of what I was supposed to be watching, not knowing what it was but certain I was putting someone in danger.
"What, what?" I cried, near panic. I was so busy "watching" that I putzed my way right through the stop sign at about 10 miles an hour and, finally realizing my error, came to a complete stop in the middle of the intersection.
Dad was non-plused. "I told you to watch it!" he said so sharply that I cried. We traded seats and Dad drove home. I did eventually learn to drive and in that Merc, too. My parents gave it to my boyfriend and me when we married. I think it was still Mom's way of marking a man "unavailable."
My new husband, a confirmed Chevy man, traded it in and bought a new 1968 Impala. I hated it. He took it back to the dealer and bought a brand new, shiny, gold (it was listed as "seafoam green" but it looked gold to me!) Camero. It did 90 easy on the freeway!
Nowdays, I drive a station wagon whose speedometer only goes to 90 and I've never pushed it. I tell my kids, though, that when they're all grown and have cars of their own I'm going to have a red Austin Healey with only two seats. So about 15 years from now if you see a flying red Austin Healy, pull over to the shoulder. It might be me.
