Maybe it was the boredom a little girl can have on lazy Sunday afternoon. Maybe it was her curiosity. Maybe it was to spend time with her granddaddy. Whatever the reason, my granddaughter Rilynne was determined this was the day she was going to take her first ride in my 1967 Mustang.
I bought it when it was nothing but a black hole for my money and my dreams. It didn’t have snazzy wheels, just hubcaps. No console. No power anything. It was just an engine, transmission, and car body – a Plain Jane. But all of its shortcomings went unnoticed because of the color. It was the ugliest brown I have ever seen. Ford optimistically called it Burnt Amber. My friends called it another name that had to do with the contents of a baby’s diaper. Regardless, I believed that given enough time (and money), I could make a silk purse out of a pony’s ear.
The process began: Save, then spend. At first, we did all the boring stuff; a new transmission, engine, and brakes. Finally, the holy grail – the paint job. A chance to de-brown it forever. Rather than choose a cliché color like Candy Apple Red, we went with Dark Moss Green, adding fog lamps, exhaust pipes and GT stripes. The results were eye-popping. The deep emerald color glistened like a jewel in an Indiana Jones movie. It used to make my brother so mad when I told him that my little Mustang would get more looks than his expensive 50th Anniversary Corvette.
Rilynne is now officially big enough to sit in the front seat, so I agreed to a short drive to the gas station. And before I even put the key in the ignition, I was beset with minor aggravations. She peppered me with more questions than a Senate hearing.
“Granddaddy, where is the shoulder belt?”
“It doesn’t have one.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s old like me.”
“Granddaddy, where is the button to make the window go down?”
“It’s that crank right there. Let me pull over and roll it down for you.”
“Granddaddy, why doesn’t this car have air conditioning?”
“It does honey. It’s called 470 cooling. Roll all 4 windows down and drive 70 miles per hour.”
“Granddaddy, why is it so loud?”
“So I don’t have to talk to your Grandmother when I drive.”
“Granddaddy, can I turn on the radio?”
“Sure.” Finally an easy question.
We stopped, and I turned the knob. It crackled to life. To my surprise, she expertly maneuvered the tuning dial to her favorite station. I think I can say with confidence that those car speakers were surprised when the electronic pop music came out of them. Honestly, I can’t believe they didn’t explode. Those speakers were meant to play the Temptations, the Four Tops, and the Beach Boys. Not Taylor Swift.
We pulled in the gas station and predictably it happened. Guys young and old were drawn to the car like a drunk to happy hour. Asking questions and telling me about the old cars they once had. All of this attention was not lost on my granddaughter, who loved being a part of it.
With the gas tank full and our egos stroked, we headed for home. Then I got one more question.
“Granddaddy, will it go fast?”
I let the car answer. I punched the accelerator, the transmission downshifted, and the Mustang leaped, roaring as the speedometer needle climbed. Glancing over, I saw Rilynne displaying that little smirk I love so much. I backed off. She smiled.
We pulled in the driveway, our journey over. Then I had a question to ask her.
“Did you like it?”
“Well, it is loud, and kind of hot…. but, when can we do it again?”
I grinned. A chip off the old block. I wonder if she wants to help me change the oil?
Joe Hobby is a standup comedian, a syndicated columnist, and a long-time writer for Jay Leno. He’s a member of Cullman Electric Cooperative and is very happy now that he can use Sprout from his little place on Smith Lake. Contact him at [email protected].
