"Did you have a car in high school or college?" - Storyworth

One of Each

In high school, I had a royal blue 1968 Rambler American. Later, in my sophomore year of college, I drive a primer gray 1968 VW bus. But let's focus on the Rambler.

This story was prompted by Storyworth. Rebekah enrolled me as my birthday present. Each week, Storyworth sends me a writing prompt, usually in the form of a question. It lets me pause, reflect, and share stories with my family, stories that I probably wouldn't otherwise talk about. But the Storyworth online editor drives me crazy, so I'm writing my stories here instead.

The Rambler American

My 1968 Rambler American
was royal blue

American Motors would name their cars with model/make, not make/model. I dunno why. 

Standard transmission. Three-in-the-tree shifter. In-line six-cylinder engine. Well-worn vinyl bench seat.

And no radio.

Grampa drove me to look at the car. It had been forfeited at an auto body shop. The owner didn't pay the bill for the new paint job, so the owner just wanted to recoup the cost of the bodywork: $800.

It wasn't the cool muscle car that would attract the girls, but it was practical and cheap. When I first sat in the driver's seat, I remarked about the blank plate in the steel dashboard where the radio should be. The body shop owner said, "Sing. It'll build character."

I was going "on furlough" for my high school senior year, attending the local junior college instead. (That's one reason why I was all for enrolling my daughters in Washington's Running Start Program for their junior and senior years. Early community college worked for me, and their teachers recommended it for each of them. And the school district covered the tuition and fees!)

But I lived in rural Sonoma County. I'd need to get to Santa Rosa on my own. I needed a cheap, reliable car.

The Rambler was not without its adventure. I briefly dated a girl who'd ride in the middle of the bench seat. One day, I needed to visit the high school (in Forestville) to process some paperwork. It was lunch hour, so I could park in the bus circle out front without risk of impeding a bus. I ran into the office to drop off or pick up whatever it was that I needed. I headed back to the bus circle about 10 minutes later.

There was quite a crowd gathered around my car. And it wasn't quite where I had parked it. A cluster of about eight or 10 varsity football players were giving high fives.

These players had picked up my modest, geeky-looking car, carried it about eight feet onto the wide sidewalk that surrounded the bus circle, and set it back down (probably not gently, I imagine). So it looked as if I had driven onto the sidewalk to park.

I wasn't sure what to make of it, but I had to get going. I had a class at the junior college in about an hour. In hindsight, I relished the attention that I got. These jocks were just playing games with me. I hadn't played with them since I quit football the year prior.

The Fate of the Rambler

When I went off to the US Coast Guard Academy the next year, I couldn't take my car with me. Cadets couldn't have a car until their senior year. I left the car parked by the side of the road in front of the house.

I flew back to California for spring break. My brother, Rick, took me up to our grandparent's ranch to see the car.

Rick had "borrowed" my car without asking me. Without a license, he drove it three miles down Cazadero Highway, then two-and-half miles up the dirt road to the ranch. There, he had fun spinning donuts and driving like a stunt driver.

He lost control. The Rambler slid sideways over the edge of the road, down a shallow berm, and rolled over against an oak tree.

Rick was OK.

He climbed out (probably through the gap where the windshield once was) and managed to get the car back onto its wheels. I think he was able to get it started and drive it over the yard near the tractor shed, alongside the other ill-fated cars that littered the 10 acres around where the ranch house once stood.

That's where it was when Rick showed me his, uh, handiwork.

The windshield was shattered, lying across the back seat, and hanging together by the Saf-T-Glas laminate. The roof had a deep crevice along its entire length where the car had rolled. Not a panel of the Rambler was unscathed.

I sighed.

But spring break was almost over, and I needed to catch a plane back to Connecticut. The Rambler would wait.

I resigned from the academy about two months later. That spring break trip had made me homesick. I stayed in Connecticut for about a month. After I returned to the ranch another month or two later, I set about seeing if I could get the car operational.

I was able to get it started, and I could drive it down to the bottom of the dirt road, but the car wasn't street-legal. And there hang other tales, like my first experience seeing a chiropractor. And the challenges of figuring out what I was going to do next.

Ask me about those someday.