The idea to fix up an old car with my dad started some months ago when I was visiting him and Momma in Eddyville, Kentucky where they’ve retired.  I was in the garage looking at the Bird with him and said something about getting it out of there so he can help me rebuild a car.  It actually took me by surprise but it was out of my mouth before I knew it.  I think he may have chuckled, if he even heard me.

My first car was a ’77 Chevy Chevette that my grandfather had owned.  It was blue, had a luggage rack and a petrified chocolate chip cookie that was permanently stuck to the carpet under the seat.  It shook over 55mph and I would take it into the city and pray it wouldn’t overheat in the Chicago traffic. I could see the road through the rusted floor on the driver’s side.  Driving in the winter would pack the slush up underneath the floor mat and I’d have to kick it out before it mounded so high I couldn’t brake.  We eventually laid down an old stop sign or something to keep it street legal.

Pop found my second car locally.  It was a northern Illinois barn find.  I thought I paid $2500 for it but he thinks it was closer to a grand.  It was an 8 cylinder ’79 Mustang and it hauled ass.  Now, definitely not the prettiest body shape and the bright red interior was an interesting bonus feature, but I really loved that car and drove it into my late 20’s. After the Stang, I got all grown up and shit and got the token Honda Civic, then finally my incredibly responsible, much loved Subaru Forrester; a predictable choice for a middle aged female Denverite.

The mighty Stang. Fast as hell and just as ugly. Although as I look at it now I kind of dig it.

I’m no grease monkey, but I was raised to appreciate a good car.  I also love the road.  I love driving and road trips, traveling through big cities and small towns.  I love the differences in the people, the landscapes and the general vibe.  I love driving with the windows down and music loud; it makes me feel free and young and hopeful.  It also makes me feel bad ass, if bad ass is rockin’ out in a Subaru sipping a healthy fruit smoothie from a mason jar.  (It’s not, but screw it, love life.)  I love truck stops, family-owned cafes and roadside attractions.  I love having the choice to turn down any road I want to see what I can find.

So, before I could change my mind, figure out a way to talk myself out of it, run through the list of why this was a bad idea, I emailed Pop.

Hi Pop,

I mentioned this in passing when I was out there, but I’m serious about wanting to rebuild/fix up an old car with you!  I’m in this crazy transitional time in my life, I’m feeling a bit lost about my purpose, future, etc. and I’m tired of it.  I’m tired of feeling guilty for nothing, feeling unsatisfied with everything, but most of all, of having ideas that I continually dismiss because of some bullshit reason.  I have the freedom to do what I want, the means to indulge myself a bit and the desire to spend more time with my parents.

Something is continually pulling me back to this idea/project…it almost feels spiritual.  I’m hoping it could be something that would be fulfilling and wonderful for you.  Perhaps the Firebird has been holding you back, blocking some advancement, and this could be just what you’ve been needing!

I was looking into some type of class on engines/motors the other day and all I could find was tech schools and electronic classes, etc.  Too involved for what I want.  I was thinking, “I just need some old gear head to take me under his wing and show me.”  Then of course, I realized I knew that old gear head.  To give you an idea of what I’m thinking…  I would finance this as I want to own the car.  I want to learn how to work on the car to be able to maintain it.  I would spend numerous 1-2 week long trips out there with you and Momma regularly to work on it.  (Flying of course, with the final trip a triumphant drive home.)

I’ve been looking at Chevy Malibu’s (1970-72) and Chevelle’s.   That’s the look I’m liking.  Two door.  Mat just sent me some shots of a Buick Skylark which I could totally get into, a little less muscle, but I’m not necessarily going for flashy.  Automatic would be best, but I realize I may need to learn manual.  I think it would be fun to write a blog on this experience too, pics and all.  I thought of calling it “Pop my Ride” but friends thought that was disgusting and inappropriate.

BEFORE you poo-poo this, think about it.  Mat wants to come work on brakes, Mike is supportive and Momma thinks it’s a great idea.  Let’s live!!!

Love you!

J

I wrote it quickly and sent it straight off. While rereading it later to Mike, I found I couldn’t get through it without tears.  Lost? Guilty? Unsatisfied?  Dang woman, what the fuck’s going on here? Something hit home hard and Pop’s answer became for me more important than ever.  He’s a cool dude, but I wasn’t sure if this was something he would want to tackle.  All I could do was wait and see.