The Good Old Days

I’ve almost always had a Chevy to drive. Uncle Cecil bought my first one, a 1953 two-tone green 2- door sedan, in 1964 for $15 from some farmer, who told a car dealer, “Before I sell it for that price, I will set it in the barnyard and let the horses eat out of the trunk.” Uncle Cecil and I hosed the chicken manure out of the inside and cleaned the hay out of the trunk, then he went through the engine cleaning it up until he got it running. Then he made me learn the parts of the engine, how it worked, how to change a flat, how to change the oil, before he let me drive it.

  In the fall of 1966, my old 53 Chevy kicked the bucket, dropped a rod through the oilpan, and Uncle Cecil came to the rescue again. A 1950 Studebaker, with the cab chopped off behind the driver’s door, so it was shaped like an El Camino. Originally moss green, he painted it yellow with a paint brush, two coats of paint on everything except the trunk lid, because he ran out of paint, so the trunk lid was pea green.

 “Ol’ Bullet Nose” was the ugliest car ever made, but it sure beat walking. We joked that you couldn’t tell whether it was coming or going since it had a point on both ends.

 Now I drive a 10-year-old fire-engine red Chevy Tahoe with 60,000 miles on it now.  I drive down the road in an “overstuffed  living-room recliner” power seat, with air-conditioning, CD player, cruise control, and all the power under the hood that I will ever need.

No, those weren’t the good old days. Waitressing was hard work for 25 cents an hour plus tips. Driving an old beat-up car. Dragging Main Street on Saturday night for entertainment. I do not wish to go back to those days.

These are the good old days.