The life of a Boomer can be measured in “firsts”. The first word as a baby, the first step as a toddler, the first grade, the first scout meeting, the first bike ride, the first Little League team, the first kiss, and most of all – the first car.
By first car, I don’t mean the first one we drove, but the first one that was “ours.”
Mine was a 1949 Pontiac two-door sedan. It was solid black, with a little chrome on the bumper and on the hood. It had a radio and heater – that’s it. No whitewalls or even tinted windshields. It was a stripped down model that had belonged to the warden of the Women’s Federal Penitentiary in Alderson, WV – where Martha Stewart later spent a year or two.
It had 27,000 miles on it when I got it as a Christmas present in 1961. But I loved that car like no other. It was mine and gave me a sense of freedom and coming of age.
When all the Christmas gifts had been opened that morning, and the family had gathered around the tree sipping coffee, there was one more present for me. Inside a small box was a key.
To what, I thought. Mom and Dad smiled and pointed outside.
A car! A real car! My car!
I tore outside, and sitting in 16-inches of fresh snow was my Pontiac. I called him Old Bill, after Automo-Bill.
There were chains on the tires and I took off in the snow. I didn’t know anything about three speed transmissions or clutches, but was I quick to find out.
Today, they cancel school with a dusting of snow, but on Dec. 25, 1961, a foot and a half of snow couldn’t keep this excited Boomer in the driveway.
I called Dave. I called, Mike. I called Bill. We had ourselves a car.
Later that summer, the four of us took Old Bill to Myrtle Beach. It wasn’t exactly a chick magnet, but it got us down there – and back.
I took Old Bill bird hunting and trout fishing. He escorted me and various dates to the drive-in movies and on multiple occasions we pulled into Jim’s Drive-In Restaurant to rendezvous with friends.
I’ll never forget that first car. I wish I still had it.