When I first met Frank he was driving a Datsun 280 Z, 5 speed manual shift. It was a hand-me-down to him and had gone quite a few miles, but was still a cool sports car. One of my friends even claimed that I married Frank because I loved driving along with the window down and my hair streaming in the breeze as we zoomed along in the 2 seater.
We drove that car everywhere and still had it 8 years later when our daughter was born. For a while we smushed ourselves and the car seat in, but at 140,000 miles we finally gave up the Datsun and moved into the Chevrolet Lumina, a nice family sedan. The Lumina is a mid-size with contemporary body style. It seems to be popular with other young couples like us. We drove our Lumina through the arrival of our second child and, when it was on its last tire at 120,000 miles, we were satisfied with the service it had provided. Unfortunately, the Lumina’s demise sent us back into the car shopping mode.
We were in the market for essentially a family car for in town driving and thought a used car might fit the bill. I had put child safety at the top of my priority list and after some heated discussion Frank claimed that I was really in the market for an Abrams tank. That bias on Frank’s part is what initially attracted him to the used Crown Victoria on the Ford car lot. The Crown Victoria with its V8 engine is a big car. This particular car had been previously owned by a local senior citizen. It had been serviced regularly and at 35,000 miles had received a new set of Michelin tires. It boasted low mileage for its 5 year life and, based on size, weight and driver-side air bag, met my safety expectations. With surprisingly minimal posturing on either side, we made an amicable purchase and I revved it up to head for home.
Shortly into my drive I was struck by the enormity of this purchase. This was a BIG car. The velour passenger seat stretched out for acres to my right. There was so much leftover head room that I thought I must look like one of those older gray haired drivers that you can barely spot over the steering wheel. The steering wheel was a maximum soft touch. Slight pressure with my left pinky would send the vehicle careening off to the left-hand passing lane. This wishy-washy steering interplayed perfectly with the boat-like ride to give the illusion of skimming across the smooth glassy surface of a well-protected bay. The driver’s side rearview mirror sported a 1 x 1 inch micro mirror to visualize the blind spot, so that my driving comfort need not be interrupted by wrenching my potentially arthritic neck around to look for cars approaching on my left side. The car salesman had vowed that I would feel like I was driving down the road on my living room sofa. “No way,” I thought. “I’m driving down the road in my Grandmother’s Car.”
For all of her life my Grandmother drove one or another ocean liner Oldsmobile. I can remember riding hunkered in backseat velour. When we reached a destination I would have to flip the door handle, lean my body toward the center of the backseat and use both feet to lever open the back door. It was imperative to determine that the door had snapped into the full open position since a gravity-prompted fall of the door towards closure would crush any body parts emerging from the interior.
My grandmother parked these luxury liners in a one-car garage attached to her house. She was a working woman, well before her time, and at the end of a busy day she would come flying down the pea gravel driveway and hit the cement floor of the garage at high speed. The car would come to a squealing halt just inches before crashing into the deep freeze situated along the back wall. It was a snug fit and the back end of the vehicle protruded just enough to prevent any consideration of closure of the garage door. Side to side the rear of the car left only inches from metal to door frame preventing anyone from entering or exiting the garage except by the single side door. She never had an accident pulling in and claimed only one minor dent to the back bumper when she backed out for work one morning without looking and hit a pine tree in the front yard.
With these thoughts of my grandmother I reached to turn on the Crown Victoria radio. I could swear I was hearing strains of Lawrence Welk music. There was probably a speaker piping music and bubbles directly into the trunk which was plenty large enough to accommodate Ballroom Dancing. Driving the Grandmother Car is a long stretch from my sporty days. If I start ordering Sanka with my meal or cooking only fudge and divinity or hankering after that big band sound, then we may have to make a trade!