(2007. Revised 2026) I was fifteen and had never driven a car on the street before. It was a Sunday and the parents and my younger brothers were away for the day in my father’s Dart. And there I was, looking out over the long hood of the ’65 Dodge Coronet wagon at the head of the driveway facing the street. The fast-idling 318 V8 was taunting my right foot with its gentle tug against the brakes. I looked down at the shift quadrant: I was in P. But very nearby was D. That stands for Drive. So I did.
Can I get out of the back seat and into the driver’s seat now?
In 1965, my family moved to Baltimore. From my seventh grader’s perspective, it sucked. Iowa City, a University town, was friendly, open-minded, cosmopolitan and relaxed. Towson was cold, prejudiced, provincial, uptight and had unbearably humid summers with no nearby pool or tractors to drive. I quickly came to loathe everything about Maryland– except crab cakes, soul music, girls and Ocean City. I became a rebel with a cause: driving.
My official driving license then was still some time away. I mourned the loss of my Iowa City hot-rodding neighbors, friendly dealerships and farm vehicles. I withdrew into an inner auto-life, the classic adolescent funk. I spent long afternoons at the drug store reading car magazines cover to cover, ignoring the pharmacist’s reproachful gaze. I left everything from Hot Rod to Sports Car Graphic shop-worn.
J.C. Whitney’s mail-order auto parts catalog also played an important part in the cultivation of my expanded fantasy life (mental masturbation, as I call it now). I would select a certain year and model car, anything from a VW to a Corvair. Or combine the best of both. Then I’d carefully embellish, modify and rebuild it with every possible part the Chicago parts purveyor could provide. Pimp My Mind.
Memorable moments of auto-reality punctuated the ennui. My father bought a brand new 1965 Opel Kadett A. The salesman had to extricate the tiny thing from the clutches of a Buick Wildcat in the back corner of the showroom. GM’s “captive import” was bright green, weighed 1475 lbs. and sported a 993cc 46 hp mill. Having only driven automatics since he got his license in 1940 in Austria, my father struggled with the German sedan’s hair-trigger clutch.
When he released it too quickly (i.e. all the time), the Opel responded with a squeal and a hop. He’d quickly depress the clutch– and then release it again (too quickly). And again. The Opel was like a little green frog hopping down the street. My poor father; we’ll never let him forget the amusement provided by his on-off relationship with that clutch.
Meanwhile, my older brother used the Opel to bait VW’s into stop-light drag races. The Opel’s 300 pound weight advantage and willingness to over-rev left them in the dust. (I’m sure his hooning had something to do with the Kadett needing a valve job after two years’ service.) A boringly-sturdy slant-six Dart soon replaced the Kadett, joining our 1965 Coronet 440 wagon.
As we’d become a two Dodge household, I jumped on the Mopar bandwagon. The brand was hot in drag and stock-car racing. David Pearson, one of the greatest NASCAR drivers of all time, was my hero. His ’65 Coronet dominated the short tracks in 1966.
I used to imagine that the chrome “440” numbers on its front fenders were a call out for what was under the hood, and not the trim level– especially when I got to back it out of the garage in exchange for washing it. It was a fair trade; the wagon was permanently spotless. But stopping at the end of the driveway became increasingly difficult.
My rebelliousness and early-adolescent funk led me into bad habits. I started smoking in seventh grade. I began commissioning willing winos to buy me cheap rye whiskey (Their fee: two big swigs.) Hooking school, copying homework, cheating, falsifying report cards and forging signatures became my stock and trade. I even impersonated my father on the phone with the school principal. Seriously.
Ironically, when I was AWOL from school, I was often “studying” at the huge downtown Baltimore Enoch Pratt public library (via the #8 bus) where I immersed myself in the institution’s substantial automotive section. Exhausting that, I found hundreds of old Popular Mechanics magazines with exotic automotive inventions and car reviews going back to the forties (“Floyd Clymer wrings out the all new 1949 Ford”). It sure beat sitting through grammar class with “Chucky-Frank” (Sister Charles Francis).
But it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy my automotive cravings. It had been three years since I’d last driven tractors and the chore scooter on Iowa farmland and gravel roads. My withdrawal symptoms had never abated. One crisp fall October day in 1968, it happened. I was fifteen. My parents were gone for the day in Pop’s Dart, and I succumbed to the need for speed.
I took the spare keys to the Coronet, got in, backed her out in the tight turn from the perpendicular basement-level garage, faced it to the street, hesitated for a brief moment, dropped the chrome lever into Drive and just didn’t stop at the end of the driveway. I drove down Colonial Court, hoping none of the neighbors were in their front yards, drove through the neighborhood and headed out Charles Street, where I first surpassed 40. This is easy!
I approached the 695 Beltway intersection; I planned to keep going north, but when I hit the entry ramp I just couldn’t resist, turned the wheel and went for it. The only problem was a nervous flutter in my right leg approaching 60mph. But it smoothed right out at around 70.
I had rehearsed this moment in my mind a thousand times (I’m still a firm believer in the power to learn something by careful watching and mental practice). Finally, I was liberated. It was the perfect antithesis to the perpetually-bored inattention of adolescence. I was 100% alive and awake and in tune with every subtle nuance of feedback, motion and sound emanating from the hijacked Dodge. Not that there was all that much feedback, especially from the utterly numb Chrysler power steering.
Life is not a steady continuum; it’s a series of steps and jumps. And some of us are willing to take big leaps; this was one of my biggest. I went from sitting in the driveway imagining driving on the freeway to actually doing it in one 15 minute leap. So much for Driver’s Ed; I’m a hands-on learner.
Eventually– and reluctantly– I brought the Coronet back home to 305 Colonial Court, and drove down the long driveway, hoping again that the neighbors weren’t out raking leaves. or maybe they would just assume I had my license? My head was buzzing and my body glowed. I had discovered my drug of choice, and I was thoroughly addicted. And like most addicts, I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, lay off the good stuff– regardless of the consequences. And there would be consequences. Did I really think I’d keep getting away with this?
“My rebelliousness and early-adolescent funk led me into bad habits. In seventh grade, I started smoking. I began commissioning willing winos to buy me booze. (Their fee: two big swigs.) Hooking school, copying homework, cheating, falsifying report cards and forging signatures became my stock and trade. I even impersonated my father on the phone with the school principal.”
That was so familiar it spooked me a bit, it’s almost frightening. But my rebellion was in the 80s and it involved a 70 Caprice..
J.C.Whitney..
It was Mecca for my friends and I. The first guy to get his license had to drag all of us down there. The old Warshawski building was the best! Especially the clearance center. I still trek out to LaSalle to the “new” JC warehouse once a year, but the magic of the original Warshawski/Whitney on State street is long gone.
My friend & I had to be content with the catalog. It was junk literature for gearheads; we loved the snake oil like the engine rebuilding in a can, or various frivolous accessories.
But this was still nothing compared to the cornucopia of the Victorian Sears catalog, which included naughty things like heroin, cocaine, and firearms, all by mail. And you get to see what “Phaeton” meant in the 1890s.
I have a similar experience with the oft spoken Volvo Duett. Before it was handed down to me, it was the familys second, and then third car. So it didn’t get much use before I got the keys on my 18th birthday. However, I remember one time, I could be perhaps 16 or 17, and it was the Swedish equivalent of spring break. Though, in Sweden, it’s usually the last week of february, and it’s not so much for celebrating spring, but for taking the family to go skiing in the best part of winter. And I was in the period of my upbringing when family gatherings was not as fun as hanging out with friends and such, so for one reason or another I was left home guarding the house while the others were away. And I just couldn’t resist taking the car out for a ride. Every night.
The southern part of Sweden only sees a regular snowy winter perhaps only a couple of weeks a year, sometimes a couple of months with snow. Some years it’s only mush. That year was quite heavy with snow, and as the natives weren’t used with that much snow, none of them dared go out in it. So I was pretty much left alone on the rural roads, I remember it was two hours of driving before I even met another car. my families upbringing in the north of Sweden had me fairly used to and familiar with real winter conditions, so naturally I wasn’t afraid of it.
I remember spinning the car round and round on a big empty parking lot, covered with a thick layer of very lose snow. The only time I got scared was when I nearly slided into a ditch taking a curve too fast. And another time on a long straight were I encountered black ice, and the car slowly drifted into the opposing lane. But it was a good lesson in learning the limits. And it was a bliss having the roads for myself.
Lord, does that bring back memories! Used to drive my Dad’s then new 530i to school (9th grade) back when I was 14-15, and my folks were out of town, which was frequently. God, did I think I was cool. Had a few girls I was desperate to impress (and do, um, other things with). Results were mixed at best, but boy did it get the adrenaline going.
My best friend and I would take off right after school and go out on the county roads, pretending we were Hans Stuck or Peter Gregg. Lucky I didn’t wreck or kill myself in that Bimmer, let alone get caught…still can’t believe my Dad never noticed the mileage (although I always I took care to fill it up EXACTLY to where it was when he left it), and that nobody ratted me out, or none of the teachers or school administrators noticed.
Thanks for the great trip down memory road!
My grandfather used to leave hhis 1948 delivery truck in my parent’s driveway. During the day when everybody was gone, I’d sit in the driver’s seat for hours going through all the steps required to drive it. When I’d decided it was finally time to put theory to practice, a quick tutorial by the well known neighborhood car thief allowed me to learn the trade secrets of hotwiring and Iwas soon on my way. Got in a lot of flight time that way. Here’s the irony: Ijust retired after 35+ yrs driving a truck
The cars aren’t the only thing here with a great story. Thanks for sharing with us, Paul.
When I was 14, my dad woke me up at dawn on Easter Sunday and said “Get dressed, I’m going to teach you how to drive.” The hour we spent in a deserted parking lot driving in circles was the highlight of my young, car-obsessed life. I was beaming for days afterward. But it’d be almost a year before I’d get my learner’s permit – that first taste behind the wheel made the wait for the one thing I’d always wanted more than anything seem more unbearable than ever.
Yet, somehow, I resisted the urge to “borrow” the family car. Don’t get me wrong, the temptation was there. Miraculously, I became a latchkey kid in 9th grade after years of overparenting. Mom worked 2nd and 3rd shift, and dad’s new job involved more travel – and he usually left his car at home while he was out of town. A car that I “knew” how to drive. A car which I had already found the “hidden” spare keys to. Unfortunately, Gladys Kravitz lived across the street, and I couldn’t so much as back the car down the driveway without her alerting the media.
It became even worse a few months before I got my license, when we bought a third car. Now, my ticket to freedom was waiting – beckoning – 24 hours a day. But, again, vigilant neighbors and my knack for always being the one kid who gets caught kept me from acting on my urges.
So, I’d just sit in the car in the garage and listen to the radio, plotting my future adventures. I studied the owners manual and the engine compartment. If it was in parked outside I’d wash and wax it. Hell, I once even jacked up the car, put the spare on, then swapped it back, just because.
Finally, the big day came. And I failed the friggin’ maneuverability test. After a week of eating crow amongst my friends, I passed on the second try. Then, after two absolutely painful days of waiting on car insurance, I took my first solo drive.
I’d like to say that my teenage rebellion and delinquency started that day. But aside from driving a whopping five over the speed limit and being the wheel man for the occasional trespassing or house egging, it didn’t. I mostly just drove and drove and drove. First all over town, then into the city and as far out into the countryside as I dared venture without raising my parent’s suspicion. Didn’t even matter that my car was a gutless econobox. I just loved “Riding along in my automobile…cruising and playing the radio, with no particular place to go.” Never seemed to get the “My baby beside me at the wheel” part right, though.
Sounds like me – I failed at reverse-parking, and had to wait several weeks for a re-test, which I aced. Second time I got the parking part of the test over before getting out on the road, which did wonders for my confidence!
Holy cow, that is the exact same 65 wagon my dad had too, except ours was white with the same blue color accent on the rear door/quarter!
In the late summer of 1965 the whole family trekked to the local dodge dealer to buy a car, I remember the day well. I was a car obsessed 5 year old and this was one of the most exciting days of my life. I was immediately drawn to a brand spanking new silver 66 Charger with a black interior and insisted that this was the car to get. I have absolutely no idea what engine it had in it or whether it had an automatic or stick (although I’ll bet it was a 318 with a torqueflite) it simply didn’t matter to my young mind. It was the coolest car on the lot.
When my mom disagreed I went over to a red one, thinking that the color was the problem, again no dice. So I went over to a black one, this HAD to be the right one. That’s when I found out that the color wasn’t the problem, the Charger was. Dad was inside making a deal on the white Coronet wagon. Man was I bummed, even at 5 I knew that this was the automotive equivalent to an appliance.
As we piled into the new Dodge I wistfully took one last look at the silver Charger. It was my first lesson in practicality vs style.
BTW, I still want the car my dad traded in that day, a 1957 Ford Fairlane 500 Coupe with a 312 T-Bird motor 🙂
Paul after reading you for the last year or two, I find it interesting that the first car we both drove was our fathers Blue Dodge Coronet wagon. Mine was a 74. I have mentioned it before I think, but the cars that he drove in my lifetime have several similar items to what your Dad drove. He also had a Barebones, vinyl floored grey Opel Kadett 68. He would never have bought a non-American car, except that not only was it purchased new for $2000, but I believe he felt better having bought it at the local Buick dealers. He was of the belief that a car was nothing but a way to get from point A to B. His Pinto Pony & Base Escorts were his last cars, purchased due to them living in a country town which only had a Ford Dealer within 15 miles at the time.
After reading this article and busting a gut laughing, I just had to post my similar childhood experience. Growing up in a farming town of 7675 people just south of buffalo ny, my brother and I had the same ideas. Seems as if the cub cadet lawn tractor wasn’t good enough for us to rule the road. So, moms 69 impala convertible was my drug of choice and dads 73 Honda 450 bike was my brothers. Since Steve and I were such “good sons”, the folks trusted us enough to leave us alone and take trips on dads new gold wing to wheeling wv. I figured out a way to take the keys off his chain and replace them with blanks so he didn’t notice them missing. I hid those keys in a shoe I knew he wasn’t taking on the trip. I was 13, Steve 14. Bye bye to the folks and hello roads for us. I was hot stuff tooling down the dirt roads of town, that is until I hit a pothole and the muffler broke just in front of the rear axle just enough to lift the impala off the ground. I couldn’t go forward, just reverse. I drove that car miles in reverse hoping not to catch
the attention of the mosey neighbors with spy glasses.
Another time I borrowed their car was when I was in 8th grade and skipping 2 weeks of school. Mom was going to beauty school, dad left for work at Chevys tonawanda plant hours before, I was home free. I called the school and acted like my dad and got Steve out in the middle of a buffalo blizzard in an orange VW with a boat gas tank in the back seat because the fuel tank on the VW was busted. EPIC!!!
Dad sold that impala later on, or shall I say TRADED it for 7 piles of dirt to some guy named Dick Rott. No lie that was his name. I will never forget those days and thanks for the memory. I could go on for hours telling tales of many times we borrowed the folks cars and trucks. Heck, I taught myself the 3 on the tree in dads Cheyenne. I think I was 14 then, schlepping towards the big city of Buffalo!! And how could I ever forget moms Nova being drag raced in our back field against my gal pals 68 galaxie in which she was able to borrow from her driveway compliments of a spare license plate from our barn and creative use of a yellow plastic spiral notebook cover cleverly shaped and decorated to look like a NY state inspection sticker!!!!
“7675 people just south of buffalo ny”
I’m from a small town just south of Buffalo myself…
Springville? Orchard Park?
There’s no town that elicits the loyalty that Buffalo does. I’m from Angola on the Lake, myself. Until my parents divorced and mom took us to Florida in ’74, when I was 11. Loved that town…still do. My dad worked at Bethlehem Steel, his dad lived on a 40 acre farm on Stockton-Fredonia Road.
Fabulous story that hits home on so many levels. I was fortunate that I had some outlets for the driving urge. My mother had grown up on a farm and would periodically take me out in the neighborhood or let me have the wheel on country roads on the way to visit grandma, probably starting at about 14. My father would let me drive his Mark IV the tenth of a mile to the end of a private road to get the mail and the paper. He also kept my stepmom’s 68 Cutlass as an extra car (for some reason I never figured out) and I was allowed to drive it on the U shaped private road fairly frequently.
I never went out on an illicit trip, I guess I realized on some level that I had it pretty good and that getting caught would cost me more than for my friends who were never allowed to drive anyway.
I did this with my mom’s 88 Camry in the January I was 16…hit a patch of black ice and rammed it into a tree!
Wow, I didn’t know that I was online with a bunch of juvenile delinquents! Next you’ll start talking about your Ducks Ass haircuts and the pack of Lucky Strikes you had rolled up in the sleeve of your t-shirt. While I spent a lot of time sitting in my Dad’s 59 Impala 2 door hardtop checking out the hardware and dreaming, I was lucky. When I was around 11 years old My Dad would take my older brother and I to a big empty empty parking lot and let us drive his new 64 Pontiac Tempest station wagon around . It was white with a red vinyl interior with a 326 v8. I loved the badge on the fender with the engine callout and the unfurled checkered flag. It even had a “rally clock”. Back in the day there weren’t hordes of wanne- be cop security guards every where to spoil your fun. We would go to a real big lot next to a drive in theater in Alameda and my Dad would sit in the shade studying electronics books while my brother and I took turns cruising around the perimeter of the lot. there was never any problems with the cops hassling us or even checking up on us. I guess this experience kept me from sneaking the car out onto the public streets.
Paul,
Again, the Towson connection…1963, 15 years old, no license, driving a friend’s ’59 Biscayne, stick six, stopped on Stevenson Lane at the light at York road, fairly steep uphill grade, trunk full of a case of beer and one of Baltimore County’s finest pulls up behind me. I didn’t have a lot of time on a manual and the repercussions of a stall were too horrible to contemplate, this was real pressure. Expedience created an early “heel and toe” moment, heel on the brake, toe on the gas. I revved the Chevy and gradually pulled up and around the turn onto York Rd. It sounded like a Dynaflow, but it worked. Great memories!
I was lucky enough to live right by the 205 freeway while it was still under construction in the early 70’s, and the smooth flat but still unpaved road was great for taking the scenic route when moving the 62 Monterey from the street to the driveway to wash it. Boy did I keep that car clean. I see I’m not the only one here who misspent hours reading the JC Whitney catalog creating imaginary custom rides. We had a lot of Popular Science magazines from the early 60’s in my junior high school, I remember one test where they pushed a bunch of new cars down a boat ramp with the windows rolled up and timed how long it would take for them to sink, as I recall anywhere from 2 to 5 minutes except for a wagon whose rear gate popped open and it sank in like 19 seconds. Must have been pre production test cars that where going to be crushed, I assume. I did drive our 66 Beetle on some fire roads when I was about 13 with my dad, and when I was 14-15 was allowed to drive the Winniebago Brave down the highway, it took a while to get used to looking out the rearview mirrors at the lane markings to keep it in it’s lane, but I soon was able to keep it going down the highway properly after a few miles. I, like Paul forged notes when hooking junior high school in the 7th and 8th grade, they finally busted me in the 9th grade and almost held me back. The most “evil” but fun thing we did was a friend had one of those old stainless steel fire extinguishers we would fill with water and compressed air from the gas station and drive around in the summer and squirt people, that thing would shoot about 100 feet! Amazingly no one ever chased after us, one time a buddy decided it would be fun to spray the inside of the car “accidentally”. On the road trip with the motorhome in Erie, Pa my Dad convinced his friend (drinking was involved) to let me and his son’s borrow his Ford pickup and drive around, I had no idea where I was going as the boys said turn here, etc. I believe doughnuts on someone’s front lawn were involved. Fun times.
My grade school had a bunch of bound volumes of Popular Science and Popular Mechanics magazines from about 1963-67, which I virtually memorized in 4th grade. Gus Wilson still rules! 🙂
Gus was/is “Da MANNNNNNN!”
Gus rules!
and I lived in Catonsville from 1962-66 before the San Fernando Valley. I don’t really remember humid that much but then my next door neighbor across the street with the big tall fence was a community membership pool. End of Tadcaster Rd. right next to Patapsco State Park that I spent many a summer hiking in, catching tadpoles and blowing up model ships in the creek. What really stood out to me was that none of the houses had garages! At least we had the dead end street to one side.
When I took my driving lessons in San Diego it was in a 1969 Dodge Dart. When I practiced it was in my mother’s 1968 Plymouth Satellite wagon, green of course. It wasn’t in my father’s 68 Cougar but I did by it from him the day I turned 16 and still have it.
My worst disaster was in my mother’s 1974 Pinto wagon. Got mislead by a gravel road straight ahead while the real road took a sharp left turn. Realized to late, hit an embankment, up and over to the creek on the other side, came to rest on top of a large metal drain pipe standing vertical. Then to top it off the engine compartment caught fire while I sat there going how am I going to explain this.
Much to my Mother’s irritation (“The Bathroom is NOTTTT a library!”) and my Father’s amusement; I always had a current J. C. Whitney catalog on the ceramic tile bathroom floor, next to the toilet.
My Father would mumble to my Mother: “Better that than a “Playboy” magazine!”
Gus Wilson’s Model Garage was great .
Paul ;
I’ve never forgotten the “West Coaster ” Mail trucks and there you have one in your picture….
Me , I had a rusted out ’59 Ford F-100 stepside pickup we’d gotten from Ayers A.F.B. (IIRC) for the princely sum of $25 , the Leence Neville alternator was fried so we put an old generator & voltage regulator into it , they gave up on it after the floors disappeared , I made new ones and was on my way ! . I never drove it off the Farm but there were plenty of dirt roads to travel there .
I moved to So. Cal. @ 14 Y.O. and soon bought a ’60 VW # 117 Beetle on credit for $50 , made it run and drove my self to school and my apartment , boy howdy was I one stupid assed kid . no license , not even a learner’s permit but I had a JOB , a raggedy old car that I had to push start to go anywhere in and a live in girl friend whom I got pregnant .
Somehow I survived and found your great site full of wonderful stories .
THANK YOU .
-Nate
I always admired that Mopar’s 1960’s Torqueflite automatic transmission gear selector was a stylized, curvy hunk of metal, built into the steering column.
Unlike the flimsy, plastic POS used on Ford’s Cruise-a-matic and Chevy’s “slip ‘n slide” PowerGlide.
Superior selctor for the far superior transmission.
Mark. Agreed.
I also kind of like late 50’s early 60s GM selectors, especially Oldsmobiles. My ’57 88 had a stunning selector (in my opinion).
Those long, slender, shiny, silver shift levers of the late ’50’s–early ’60’s Olds’ were spectacular!
I just don’t get the thick, chunky things taking up all that space between the seats today.
… these left mounted buttons were pretty neat in my opinion as well, and less likely to result in a downshifting mistake if one pre-positioned one’s thumb on the desired button.
The shifting speed of the original torqueflite transmission, its off-the-line acceleration, and durability were legendary.
Lots of clutch loving teenage road racers learned that lesson.
In the very beginning of Two Lane Blacktop, the first few words in the dialog discuss a competitor’s “Torqueflite”. Of course the 455 mostly plastic ’55 won that race, but it wasn’t all that easy.
And, one could use old wood screws to hold the shift quadrant back plate on.
Sadly, once in a while, these kinds of adventures go horribly bad. Back around 1978, the 15-year old kid across the street from my house started driving his dad’s car when his parents were absent. At first, these were just short excursions around our quiet neighbourhood.
A few months later, things escalated after he got his learner’s permit. One day he and a couple of friends piled into dad’s car and went out for a long drive on some back roads in the area. None of them had a valid driver’s permit. He drove the car too fast around a bend, lost control, and slammed into a tree. He was killed instantly, and his passengers received serious injuries. His parents lost their only child that day.
I fail to see how the above sad tale of stupidity pertains to this entry?
Something like not everybody survives to report a happy ending. It’s known as a cautionary tale, so any young minds reading this will hopefully not be encouraged to try stuff that could end up badly. In my mind at least, glamorizing illicit activity sometimes unintentionally encourages more of it.
That’s how it is. Regrettable that this still has to be explained to adult people..
This brings back a memory about late 60’s – early 70’s Mopars…..with the key off, put the column shift in R, turn the left turn signal on and step on the brake and “voila” the radio would come
On another note I remember a friends son “practicing” in the carport and tearing the gas meter off the side of the house!
Stories of illicit, empancipating drives at underage are romantic but scary to me, even in my 60s. My adolescent relationship with cars was completely colored inside the lines. Even now, I get agita when I drive an unlicensed car even a short way. I like the stories though. I had a friend from church who had a stern Dad with Southern roots with whom he was at odds most of the time. He approached legal driving age with a lot of experience behind the wheel, without permission of course. His family had a car that people would klll for today: a metallic green ’62 Chevy Biscayne 2-door with the base V-8 and doggie dish hubcaps. He easily climbed out the bedroom window of the family ranch, stole around the side opposite his parents’ bedroom, and slid into the seat of the Chevy through the side door of the garage. Somehow, he got the car out into the street without waking anyone, and took rides. Doing it under their noses was the main thrill. His Dad caught on, and under scrutiny, the mouse learned to turn back the Chevy’s odometer so the cat wouldn’t have proof for a confrontation. I never rode with him, as our lives seldom intersected outside of church; I was satisfied just hearing the stories, truth be told.
As for catalogs, J. C. Whitney and Sears were pretty universal, it seems. Making lists of things I would buy for my car when I had one was a preoccupation, as were the private visits to the lingeree pages of the latter publication in those days when naked imagery was so hard to find for an adolescent. The internet eventually rendered both of those outlets moot. Suddenly, there was so much to buy for cars with the click of a cursor, and so much skin to see even if you weren’t looking for it, that those publications became quaint artifacts.
Entering the door of old age, however, I am happier with the ease of entry (so to speak) that the net has allowed to the common male idiosyncrasies. Just when the energy to obsess has started to dissipate, access has gotten so much easier. A sort of cosmic balance.
First car I ever drove on the streets was dad’s 1960 Impala sports sedan on Sunday mornings going to church a couple months before I turned 16. No traffic, less than a mile, no problem.
Valuable lessons!
I did not drive home, however – more traffic.
When my parents didn’t want to or couldn’t drive my grandfather somewhere, I was allowed to take him in his dark green Delmont 88 around the neighborhood at the age of 13. Side streets were fine but when he wanted to go to Lake Street, the main drag in town, I was super nervous. Never got pulled over though.
My moms Simca 1000, and she didn’t agree….nor did my dad.
Few streets where I grew up, but lots of county roads.
The first adventure, in my parent’s ’70 F-100, my father rode shotgun while I piloted it around the nearby cemetery. The residents didn’t mind a bit.
The second, my grandmother’s ’80 Aspen, was on a county road to haul firewood. It was a 2 mile trip each way.
My first solo trip would have been in my parent’s ’84 F-150. My mother got to the point of telling me to take it into town to catch the school bus. After a while, oops, I missed the bus. Guess I have to drive the 12 miles to school.
None of these were with a license, except the trips to school. I had driven so much by the time I possessed a license, I don’t even remember my first licensed trip.
With my learner’s permit
With my NY State junior license; I failed first test in the above Packard because I let the non-power steering wheel spin back to top dead center.
I learned to drive in my parents’ 79 Impala wagon, first in the parking lot of the local newspaper (blues laws had just ended so shopping venter lots were full even on Sundays. But the the first on the road drive was -I assume purposefully- trial by fire. Just before we got on I95 on the return leg of one of our 5 times a year pilgrimages from Philly burbs to my parents’ home town in RI, Dad said, ” you drive”.
A few years later he did something similar when he bought me my first car, a manual transmission Courier pu. He picked me up from work with it, and though I had never driven stick he said, “drive home”. No interstate, but a few uphill starts plus one very fortuitous green light…
My father started taking me out driving in parking lots and in office parks when I was 14. This came with a big caveat: If I ever took the car out illicitly, he’d kill me. For me, it was good deal.
The first time I drove on the streets was the day my learner’s permit became valid. Make that the minute my learner’s permit became valid. I asked dad if I could wake him up at midnight on my 16th birthday, so we could go driving on the streets: He actually agreed to do so. We took a 10-minute (or so) drive through our town that night in the 1981 Audi Coupe that I had recently bought (for real cheap!) to be my primary car. I still remember our exact route that night — and I’m still grateful to Dad for doing that.
My first drive in a car was fully kosher – L-plates, my dad sitting next to me in our Peugeot 504 estate. I remember that steering was harder than I expected.
However, that was not my first time on the road. That had been a year earlier, unlicensed and fully illegal on my friend’s Honda MBX50. Even though I had spend quite a bit of time on dirt bikes that were much more powerful, I well remember the excitement and freedom of being on the road, at road speeds.
When I was 12 or so, dad let me pilot our ’69 Impala Custom coupe on a county road for a couple of miles.
On another occasion, he let me drive his ’64 Karmann Ghia solo around a secluded country lot. Somehow, clutching, shifting and steering in tight quarters got the best of me and I bumped the Ghia head-on into a small tree. The impact left a vertical dent smack in the middle of the Ghia’s nose.
To my amazement, he took the incident in stride. A couple of weeks later, he popped out the dent, applied some bondo and touched up the red paint. Not perfect, but good enough to be a “20 footer.”
I can’t say it was illicit, but I started driving on streets when I was 14. Dad would give me lessons while I drove around the neighborhood in the family 1968 Mercury Marquis. It looked just like the pictured car. I also took my driver’s test in this car.
The car I taught myself to drive in-my 1984 Ford LTD
I grew up working on our family dairy in South Carolina so I had been driving various tractors and pickups since I was about 10 or 11 but when I finally got my learners permit, I started driving my Mom’s ’82 Olds Delta 88 on the road. It was a burgundy coupe with a matching bordello-like burgundy velour interior and Super Stock wheels. It was a sharp car and I really liked it and would have loved to have had it as my first car but she gave it to my brother when he joined the Navy and he needed a decent car. My Mom, being the hot rodder of the family, replaced the Olds with a new white ’87 Corvette but I was more interested in the Olds; truthfully I would have rather had the Monte Carlo SS or K5 Blazer that was on the Chevy dealer’s lot when she got the Vette.
Anyway, I loved that Olds and I’m very sentimental about cars, so about 5 years ago, I bought another one. The classifieds are not loaded with early ’80s Delta 88 coupes anymore so I had to settle for a beige ’84 but every time I drive it, I’m back in my childhood.
Dads ’63 Olds 98 was a whole lotta car for this skinny 16 year old …….
I never took the family car out without permission. I started riding dirt bikes and farm tractors at 10 years old unsupervised but with permission, whenever I wanted. I had no urge to take the family car as a kid because what I could do seemed more interesting to me.
But my friends swiped their dads cars a few times and I rode along. I think I drove one once. We had drivers licences, but just no permission to drive the car.
The first car I drove illicitly (illegally–I had no license and was 15 years old) was our family’s 1970 Pontiac Executive Safari Wagon. The car was so powerful that once I’d gingerly backed it out of our driveway, I didn’t even have to put my foot on the accelerator for the car to move along at a decent clip. I ended up driving around the block before chickening out that I would get caught, but I had the satisfaction of doing something “bad”, something I never normally did.
I’m really not sure, actually. It was most likely Dad’s (and later my) ’69 F-100 after getting my learner’s permit. The same truck would be both my son’s first drive on public roads, too.
1999 Volvo S70…base model, automatic.
Technically, I drove without a license, but in practical terms no. I had my learner’s permit when I drove one of several 1963 Ramblers owned by Framingham Driving School on the street. A church friend would take his parents’ metallic green ‘Chevy Biscayne out when they were asleep, then run the odometer backward with an electric drill, but I was never that brave.
Great stories. No two alike, of course, yet the common thread of young drivers’ lust is present throughout. Yeah — the thrill of hearing “Here — you drive” !
Not counting the ’48 Merc sedan I was loaned, or the ’36 Plymouth rumble-seat convertible I was given (see pic), well before time for a permit, the first car I drove on the street must have been our ’56 Ford wagon (white on blue) with Ford-o-matic. Then, the next summer, we visited relatives in Ohio, on an unfinished road, and I got their three-speed ’56 Chevy wagon stuck in the mud. Next standard I drove was a black finned MB sedan — somebody was borrowing our wagon for the weekend — whose clutch was so different from the forgiving Chevy that I couldn’t stop stalling it, at first, while driving my dad and the organist home from church. Then it was back to the Ford, for a while . . .
You can sort of tell by looking — I wasn’t into speed. Never have been. Cars have other charms besides max RPM and MPH ?
You lucky dog .
-Nate
My Mom’s ‘73 Ford LTD was the first Car that I took out on the street.
A Pontiac dealership supplied the High School’s Driver’s Ed cars. I will never forget Driving a brand new ‘79 LeMans that only had 6 miles on the odometer! I would rent several cars over the years with less than 50 miles, but never see under 10 again. That GM A Body really irritated me when it was my turn to sit in the back seat because of the fixed rear window on a four door.
I lost my license due to too many speeding tickets when I was about 18. There was an opportunity to buy a very nice rust free ‘67 Pontiac LeMans 2dr hdtp with a 326, for $450, so I did and hid the fact from my parents. I would drive to work or go for a ride always parking it in different locations when I returned (I had been car pooling prior to this). The driving a secret car went on for two or three months until the jig was up, about two weeks before I got my license back. I can’t believe I did such a deceitful and stupid thing like that.
Yes — we’ve probably all done things we regret. Those regrets can come back like haunting angels, when we age. Somebody warn the kids . . . !
I couldn’t believe it when I learned that GM had produced a series of cars with inoperative door windows. (Didn’t the wagon have a powered fly-window at the D-pillar ?) The reason for this decision had to do with matching or exceeding the competition’s rear seat width, as I recall it.
My first drive? Paul’s reminiscing about adolescent rebellion and bad choices brings back the memories. Summer of ’78, when I was 15, my stepdad was storing his dad’s ’62 Corvair Lakewood wagon in the driveway to keep the old man from driving it, as his health was failing, but not his pride. We didn’t drive it, but it ran great, but man it was ugly, as the old man had repainted it himself with a brush and house paint. I found the keys and took it for a spin a few times while they were at work in the daytime. On the 3rd “unauthorized” drive, as I turned onto our street, the rear end slung around 180 degrees and the car stalled. It barely restarted, I got back home and parked it and never drove it again. It scared me straight. For a while. They never found out. But as Paul said, I was addicted and needed another fix. I started sneaking their ’68 Rebel sedan out at night as they slept. I would coast it in reverse down the driveway, and with the 232-six and three-on-the-tree, it was whisper quiet as I drove away and later returned. I did that several times, doing donuts in friends’ yards, even putting a long, deep scratch in the right front fender when I hit a utility pole guy wire sliding it around. I’d even bring it back muddy, yet they never put 2+2 together….until. Until a cop became suspicious of me parked in an alley trying to remove a tree limb I had driven over that had become wedged underneath. Spotting him, I jumped in and tried to run…in a six-cylinder Rambler…from a V8 cop car. I drove straight home, running 3 stop signs, with him right behind me. As soon as I parked in the carport and tried to get out, he was there to grab my arm and escorted me to his backseat. I told him my story, so he went and knocked on the front door…at 3am in the morning, on a school night. My parents were furious, to say the very least. The cop didn’t arrest me, but wrote me 3 tickets for the stop signs, and a ticket for no license, which required me and my parents going to court. It was then that the mud and the scratch finally made sense to them. My stepdad couldn’t get the limb dislodged from underneath the car, he just cut it off and left a short piece wedged between a crossmember and the passenger side front floor. I never really suffered any repercussions from them, unless you count my stepdad claiming he sold the ’65 Fairlane he had secretly bought for my upcoming 16th birthday, or the fact that my mom never, ever let me drive or borrow her car until the day she died. It wasn’t until a year later that I bought my ’71 Skylark, with their blessing. By the way, the judge threw out the stop sign tickets, and fined me $100 for no driver license.
The first car I drove was during my first driving lesson (never touched a steering wheel before, so to speak) which was a 2010 Volkswagen Polo.
If that doesn’t count, then my mother’s 2004 Volkswagen Polo was the first car I drove, after I got my driver license
First illicit drive was several short forward-and-back moves in Dad’s ’48 Dodge, probably around age 12. The Fluid Drive, which I didn’t understand, gave me a false sense of ease about clutches. When I encountered a ’53 Chevy clutch later on (still unlicensed), I thought it was defective.
Mine was a 1963 Ford Fairlane driver’s ed car. I had driven Mom’s 1952 Plymouth beater around on our property, but never on the street. My Dad knew everybody it seems in our small town, so I was afraid to try to drive it on the street.
At twelve my dad still had hopes for the future, and one Sunday took the 56 DeSoto out of the garage and said I needed to go with him. Highly unusual for mom not going. We went out into farm country 20 miles (totally empty terrain). Dad stopped in the traffic lane, put the parking brake on and came around to my side of the car and opened the door. I had no clue what was going on. He said,”Slide over, you can’t drive from this side.” It was a perfectly strait road, and in moments I was cruising at 60 mph, which went on for another 20 miles, then there was the slightest of curves, which I wasn’t turning quite enough for. Dad just helped with his left hand. We went home, and every weekend we drove in farm country until I could drive the DeSoto like he could, Because we were legally a rural community I was able to get my license at 15. My best friend had a similar experience with his dad, but his 9 year old brother got jealous and home alone for a short time (I was with them) we came back and saw a path of destruction in the neighborhood. A stop sign laying in the street, a bush was gone from the neighbors yard, and several yards had deep tracks looping through them. As we turned into the driveway there were muddy tire marks leading to the families 59 Continental MarkIV coupe, and the front seemed to be raised and the car wasn’t parked strait. Arriving at the front of the car, there was part of a tree under the front bumper and car, a lot of brush was jammed in the grille, The car had a few dings and scrapes, one hubcap was gone. What we didn’t see was the next block over, where the tree came from. If Norm and I hadn’t taken him out later in our teens he may have never learned to drive,
My first “drive” was sitting on dad’s lap steering as he reversed our Renault 5 out of the drive.
As my parents have never owned an automatic, I don’t think I was capable of an illicit drive. My first driving experience was in a Fiat Punto, briefly in a car park with my terrified mother, and then on the road in a BSM Vauxhall Corsa 1.0 and I was the terrified one. I could barely make the thing move and the instructor sent me straight out of the housing estate onto a 60mph ‘A’ road.
Good responses from everyone. Mt first operating a vehicle wasa 2nd generation of Toyota HiAce extanded cab pick-up in 1983, it has a 4-speed column shift manual transmission. HiAce was very popular vehicle in China then. My driving class and later license test were on a 1986 Pontiac Acadica, a badge enigineering of Chevy chevette in Canada.
1966,My parents, standing in the driveway next to the car I first drove on the road, at age 15, through the MCM suburb of St. Louis I grew up in. These were of course “driving lessons” And I nearly backed it of a cliff/ridge above the Missouri River Flood plain. (too much pedal when backing up to turn around) I had this, though, and enjoyed the times, Alas, this little ‘Springtime yellow” convertible would not be MY first car. The mustang went to my older sister..Nor would a GTO which is what I really lusted for (and My Bro- in -law had bought a 66 at that time)….I took my driving test in Moms 6 month old 67 Grand prix hardtop. An Olds Cutlass was MY first ride.
Mine is a boring one: 2007 Toyota Yaris 1.4 D-4D. 90 HP Diesel, and a 5-speed.
1968 Datsun 1600 (this one: http://www.curbsideclassic.com/blog/cc-kids-2-1968-datsun-1600-510). We lived in the country outside Vancouver, at the end of a gravel road. From age 10 or so, I was allowed to drive between the house and the main road when we were leaving or returning, and occasionally on other gravel roads.
’77 Dodge Maxi-Van(360/10 pass.) , not on the road but on a Washington beach.
Almost drove into the sea while looking for the floor-mounted dimmer switch, a bad design which is gratefully extinct
We lived in a old top-floor apartment on a main street in an inner suburb of our state’s capital. No nosy neighbours, but there was plenty of traffic. It was quieter outside of peak hour, but there was a long steep driveway with just enough space between the side of the building and the fence, so that kind of limited any ideas I might have had. I had years of practice with the clutch though, backing Dad’s Falcon out of the garage to wash it every weekend and putting it back. That would have started when I was about twelve. The garage space was about two inches longer than the car, due to an old cupboard full of junk up the front, so I got plenty of practice at judging the length of the car – either the doors wouldn’t shut or I’d see and hear the cupboard move if I hit it.
Once I’d had a few years of practice going back and forth, Dad got me to turn the car around in the yard so he could go up the driveway. It was a small yard, with stairs right in the centre. If you judged it right, it was a three-point turn, otherwise five or even seven. Eventually I was allowed to thread the beast up that steep driveway and stop at the street. From this I learnt to judge the car’s width. I blessed those chrome strips at the widest point of the body. Some of them got a little bit flattened….
We stayed with my grandparents several times a year. They lived on an unmade track on the edge of a country town. There I was able to change gears – well, as far as second – dodge potholes and to turn from the ‘street’ into their driveway without hitting the gateposts.
None of that really prepared me for getting up to traffic speed in town though – it felt so fast at first! Dad turned out to be a terrible teacher, having a fearsome temper, so after a few lessons with him I enrolled in a driving school which had a similar Falcon in their fleet. The ex-police instructor was impressed by my low-speed maneuvering (those years of experience paid off) but less so by some of the bad habits I’d picked up from Dad, which would have meant a fail on my test.
The test? I was so nervous I stuffed up the reverse parking! On my re-test I got the parking over with first – which did great things for my confidence – and passed.
My dad started teaching me to drive when I was about 13 or 14 in our ’73 Impala, and my first solo was in that same car at 15 on a side street in La Salle, Ontario when we were visiting some old neighbours. I used the excuse that I was going to “warm up” the car, and I drove it to the end of the street and back. I did a lot of driving before I got my license, usually when I was out somewhere with my dad. He’d ask me if I wanted to drive, and naturally I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity for a few illicit kicks. Oddly enough, the last time I drove anywhere with my dad before he passed was in another Impala – a rented 2009 that my wife and I drove up to our cottage. He quite liked the car, and he laughed when I commented that it would likely fit inside our ’73 with room to spare.
Growing up in the burbs of Houston, no illicit driving from Mom or Dad – Dad however would take the non registered 87 Brougham limo out and about once a month and bring me along. But my Pap had an entirely different take, living in small town Central PA. He used to borrow the Sealtest milk truck when his dad was working and ride around town…if the cops saw him, he would just wave and keep on going.
So from age 6 on, Pap would let me sit on his lap and drive around town whenever I would visit – the first car I can remember is the 83 Olds 98 Regency. He would yell out “wheelman” whenever he wanted to light a cigarette with both hands, and have me grab the wheel while lighting one up. At 10, we would go up into the mountains and he would let me sit in the drivers seat and we would ram around the snowmobile trails in his 86 Cherokee, with him pointing out where the WPA camps were and where my Dad and him would take the snowmobiles. My Mom would have been horrified had she known any of this – Dad just laughed and said don’t get caught. Keep in mind, he would also send me in to buy cigarettes and lotto scratch offs since he hated walking due to his one bum leg – small towns really are another world.
When I got my permit at 16, Pap had me driving him around all summer to learn how to drive his way – this included how to brake without jerking anyone around, always looking in the mirrors, and how to run a stick. Oh, and the finer points of profanity when dealing with other drivers.
Looking back, I’m amazed that he (or I) never got in trouble. But he knew all the cops in town, and the judges too, so he wasn’t too worried.
Love your stories (and writing style) Paul – at least Baltimore in the 60’s had some pretty great soul groups. The Royalettes – “It’s Gonna Take A Miracle” is one of my favorites.
This turned out to be a great question, didn’t it. I hope there will be even more replies.
I’m still intrigued by the “Gordon” four-wheel car in Paul’s initial post. I guess parallel parking in that thing might go well — but the space allocation is miserable. Maybe a transverse engine — a turbo-charged V4, to keep it small ? — directly between the driving wheels, would leave room for a seat behind (the guest suite, or kid’s romper room) which could fold to provide capacity for other loads. The weight distribution would then be nearly neutral.
But how would this car handle, anyway ? Would it have less stability, and more sway on turns, than a normal chassis ? Wonder what happened to the prototype . . .
My first time was at age 15, my grandfather’s 1971 (I think) Dodge Dart Swinger. Green with matching vinyl top, 225 slant six and Torqueflite. Drove it in rural Virginia, both dirt and pavement. Despite the non-existent traffic, it was good practice for piloting a full-size Galaxy in SF a few months later in Driver Training class.
I’d like to add the 2 door hardtop version of Paul’s Dad’s car to my driveway today.
Paul,
At 15 years old, I took my friend’s ’59 Biscayne stick six to make a beer run. With two cases of illicit brew in the trunk, I stopped at a light (Stevenson Lane at York Rd.). That’s a fairly steep hill and I’m a stick shift virgin. Murphy’s Law intruded and a Baltimore County cop car was right behind me. No license, beer in the trunk…do the math. I rode the clutch, keeping the car in gear, heel and toeing the gas-brake. The light changed, I got on the gas and slipped the clutch, sounding like a DynaFlow turning right as the police car went straight. Memorable first drive!
Nicely done! I know where that is, of course. Were you a bit moist afterwards? 🙂
I thought you might! Yes, not a little moist, but we ended the evening at a place in Timonium where the spoils of that narrow escape were consumed and enjoyed. Even moister!
1st drive. Dad took me out in his 75 fiat x19 when I was about 12 waaaaaaaay out in the dessert between yerington and Reno Nevada. Boy howdy that was fun! Small car. I fit in it just fine.
My father had me sitting on his lap steering our 1960 Chevy Bel Air on back roads by the time I was 9. When I was a little bigger I would jockey the boat behind the Chevy around the yard and into the storage building.
My first illicit drive(s) were at 15 with a neighbor in a brand new ’68 Chevy Impala wagon. As he liked to mix alcohol with Tab (anyone remember Tab?) I was the “designated driver”. He would always ask “why do you drive so fast” lol. Our adventures took us all over the county and I still think fondly of them. If my parents ever knew, they didn’t say anything.
RIP Sam.
My dad was a complex man who just loved breaking rules. I didn’t have to steal the family car. No, all I had to do what ask for the keys and go wherever I wanted. I was doing this regularly from the age of 13 or so. I mostly drove the 1974 Toyota Corolla 1600, which was a zippy car for the day. Occasionally, I’d take take’s dad’s 1973 GMC half ton. Even then, I much preferred the small car over the big one.
Lots of nostalgic stories here, my first was 1n 1959 when Dad let me drive our ’59 Squire into the driveway from the street.
I’m curious as to what car in 1940 Austria had an automatic transmission. I know some Euro (mostly French?) had the Cotal pre-selector trans but those were not automatic, technically?
Paul I suspect a lot of the antipathy for Towson was a result of the timing of the move, a difficult age to transition. It is definitely different than IC for sure (our daughter lived there for five years 2005-10 and we really liked it). Though Baltimore had/has it’s foibles, being in a border state and Southern in some aspects, having grown up there 1950-1968 it was interesting and I find it quite different from other E coast cities, including both my parent’s home, Boston.
Yes OC and the seafood are among its positives along with the O’s, Natty Bohemian, a lot of great cultural activities and some of the best medical and academic institutions in the world. I never found people cold at all, in fact just the opposite compared to NY, DC, Boston etc.
Being only a few blocks W of your parent’s home, our neighborhood of Chestnut Hills was very tight knit and friendly and a wonderful place to grow up. And I understand that even your own mother became a resident there (Pickersgill… I went to my 1968 THS prom with the daughter of the Dr who ran the place!).
Maybe I didn’t write that clearly enough; I meant that ever since he got his license (in a stick shift car, of course) in 1940, he had not driven a stick. He was inherently a but clumsy in certain respects.
As to my feelings about Towson and the Baltimore area, it’s a bit complicated due to my issues with low social status in my peer group. I was a late bloomer, and was utterly clueless about the things that were required to be accepted then. Like clothes. I was enrolled at Immaculate Conception Elementary for 7th grade right after we arrived. They required school uniforms: khaki pants for boys, white shirts and a school tie. My mother ordered shirts and pants from a school uniform outfit. They were exceptionally dorky. All the boys wore (Arrow) preppy button down shirts and decently tailored pants from Hutzlers. My fly-away collar shirts and stiff, baggy pants did nothing to ease my introduction to a cohort of kids who all knew each other. I was a total social outcast.
The formality and rigid routines at that school, such as nuns using clickers to indicate when to stop and start walking in line to church or even for several blocks after school was just all very painful after a totally free and relaxed environment in IC.
I was also a bit shocked at my first introduction to deep seated racism, even if it was a bit less than totally overt. The N word was used widely, and the obvious racial segregation was an eye opener. There were zero blacks in Towson except in “Little Africa” a very rag-tag collection of rundown houses a few blocks east of York Road near Chesapeake. I’m sure you know where it was. And then there was Baltimore the city, totally segregated by the black and white areas.
In Iowa City, there was a Black family that lived on our block, three houses away, and we played with their kids all the time. They were totally integrated into our neighborhood and the university society, In fact, this Black man was the first to become a dean of a major university. We thought nothing of it. They were just our friends and neighbors, And there were other Black kids in my school whose parents were there for an advanced degree.
There were lots of nice folks in our (and your) part of town, but people did tend to be rather provincial, at least compared to Iowa City where the university community was very international as well as cosmopolitan. Folks traveled overseas and had a wide range of interests and such. I could not help notice the difference in Towson.
The bottom line is that I never felt quite at home in Towson, which is why I left after I turned 18. But it’s not really a criticism of the place; we just didn’t click.
Hope that helps some.
Totally get it. Many of our neighbors went to IC, and as one raised Unitarian I totally didn’t grok the IHS whole regimen there, I sure would have rebelled! Since my folks were Bostonians, a neighbor on 1 side a Westinghouse EE from Philly, the other side a Cornell PhD in math, plus going to a very liberal church with folks from all over, and maybe 25% former Jewish, and Dad’s co-workers at Bethlehem (the sales office in the Blaustein Bldg downtown, not Sparrow Point) from all over, just didn’t see the provincialism much as a kid, but we did have a few old-line Baltimore neighbors who weren’t afraid of occasional expressions of bigotry, it was there. My own rose-colored glasses I’m sure mainly stem from those being golden years of childhood in a very close-knit neighborhood where all the kids went to school together from K to 12. And one plus was that parents always ferried us to school in their cool ’50s cars!
“I’m still a firm believer in the power to learn something by careful watching and mental practice.”
I was 13 out cutting firewood with my father and uncle in Schaghticoke. It’s funny how those days were hottest for the task.
Both trucks were loaded and I went to take a quick whizzer. When I returned my father and uncle were gone.
I waited patiently for them to figure it out.
After 15 or so minutes I decided they were not coming back for me. Thankfully they left one of the trucks behind with the key in the ignition.
This was a mid-70s Ford rack truck with a stick and an eight–probably a Cleveland since my uncle loved those engines.
I hopped in the truck despite never driving a stick shift before, but i had plenty of mental practice watching my father.
An uneventful half hour later I pulled in the driveway only to hear my mother excoriating my uncle and father.
Fun times and no ticks–not even from the Cleveland…
Great story. Kids are like sponges.
I learned to drive stick at age 8 sitting on my grandfather’s lap and cruising along country roads in his new 1958 Bel Air sedan. He would let me steer and shift while he did the clutching and braking. I also would go out and start and warm up the car for him when he was ready to leave our house. I thought he was the best grandpa in the world – I still do. Little did I know I would have him for only four more years. At age 15 I did a lot of driving with my learner’s permit in grandma’s 62 Chevy II, four cylinder and stick. She was my best friend and we went everywhere together. Good times, terrific grandparents.
My first solo drive was when I was 14. I wasn’t a “problem kid” like the one that lived next door, who eventually became a raging drunk, I was in a sort of “I want to start driving, now!” mood since I was 13. My dad was friends with the owners of several dealerships. One guy was an Olds/Cadillac dealer. My sister’s ’68 Cutlass had weird issues almost from the start, all seeming to be dashboard wiring related. I rusted amazingly quickly, too. Anyway, it was at the dealer, being fixed again, and as it turned out, for the last time, they finally solved the issues and the car spent the last year at our house running perfectly. But while it was being fixed, we got a loaner, a ’69 Hurst Olds. Little did I know that it would be the first car I ever drove solo. On a Sunday afternoon, my dad told me to pull his Cadillac out of the garage. That meant swapping the H/O from behind his car to the other side of the driveway behind mom’s car, which was a ’70 Cutlass, one that would be gone as soon as the ’72’s came out.
We had a pretty short driveway, and backing the cars into the street when switching them around was the usual thing we did, and this time was the same. I backed it out onto the street, and instead of pulling it into the other side of the driveway, I went down the street. Our neighborhood was basically a loop, and I made one orbit of it, at about 10 MPH. Having done that with no dramatics, I did another, at 25 MPH. As I approached our house, I got brave and gave the gas pedal a hit, and the 455 roared. I was thrilled and terrifed of being caught. My dad wasn’t the hitting type, but his radio announcer voice always shocked me when he yelled, and if I had been caught, boy would he have yelled. He kind of sounded like Ed McMahon. He made my grandmother cry once and she was about as tough a woman from that time period could be, she was a traveling saleswoman in the mid 1920’s until about 1940, when she ended up in Toledo somehow, becoming “Miss Naomi” the lingerie expert at several local department stores over the next 20+ years. We got into the Caddy to go out to eat that night, and I was terrified that my dad somehow knew about my little driving adventure and he would start yelling any minute, but he was in a very good mood that day. We had dinner, went to the drug store where we always went after we ate at that restaurant, bought a ton of paperback books, magazines, and the soft core sorta porn comic books I had a bunch of. Then we went to “Penguin Palace” and got ice cream. PP is still there, and still great. I didn’t drive solo again until just before I turned 16, when I took the Caddy for a spin around the block 3 times. Didn’t get caught that time either. I liked the H/O a lot better than the Caddy for sure. My first legit solo drive was coming home from getting my license. I dropped off the driving school owner who I had spent many hours with at the school, and then came home on my own in my short lived ’71 Cutlass, my sister’s former car. It would be wrecked 2 weeks later.
I am loving all these stories .
IRC my very first drive was the 1952 M38A1 Willys Jeep on the farm, way up in the hills I was asked if I wanted to drive ? .
Yes ! was my answer, then as I put in the clutch he looked surprised and asked “you know what to do ?” .
Yes, I do .
This was in 1968 maybe 1967 as I was slowly returning the rusty 1959 Ford F100 pickup to service so I may have driven it a bit before .
Please keep the stories coming .
-Nate