Ramblings of a Wise or Perhaps Foolish Older Woman

My brother Timmy came home from Korea in 1953 and did something wise, and perhaps something foolish. He enrolled in accounting school, and he bought a bright yellow 1949 Chevy convertible.  (this photo looked similian to Timmy's car)

Like the dutiful Greek son he was, he took our mother and father for the first ride. Then his girlfriend. Finally, my two older sisters and I got to jump in. The Boston evening smelled of springtime. I tilted my head back and watched the tree branches zip overhead, and I promised myself that some day I would own a yellow convertible. I was nine years old. 

After graduation from accounting school, Timmy got a job at a large insurance company and wrote lists of numbers on large sheets of “eye-ease green” paper. He also got married and had a son. His dream car got left behind along the staid pathway of his mature life. The blood that stirred him to buy that car drained out of him a drop at a time. But without his knowledge he’d planted a dream in my heart.

I was 21, newly married, pregnant, and poor when my new husband totaled his big Buick. I can’t remember why we went to the junkyard, but I’ll never forget the moment I saw it – a 1960 Nash Metropolitan black and white convertible. (the photo below looks exactly like our car but ours had lots of dents and scratches) We paid $125 cash. We drove him home, proud as any new parents. The car had only one major problem – a manual transmission that was reluctant to shift from first to second gear. But if you played with the gearshift carefully, it could be done. The other problem was strictly mine – I’d never learned to drive a manual. Like many girls my age I was an expert in shifting my boyfriends’ cars, but I never actually touched the clutch pedal. One day I wanted to go grocery shopping and Alex didn’t.  I called his bluff.  

“Then I’ll just go alone,” I said. “Give me the keys.”  He handed them to me.  Stunned I sat behind the wheel wondering how I’d gotten myself in this mess. “Okay, Judy, you’ve seen him do this at least 50 times,” I told myself. “You can do it.”

I drove the two miles to the grocery store in first gear. People stared and cars honked. Two hours and $30 later I was bucking my way back home and there was Alex walking toward me.  He hollered, “Judy, you’ve been gone forever - are you okay?” 

“Of course I’m okay – climb in.”  

In 1965 $30 bought six bags of groceries, so the only place for Alex to sit was on the trunk with his feet hanging into the tiny area behind the seats. Those bags held Alex’s legs steady so he didn’t flip over backward as I jerked all the way to our apartment. With hours of practice, I learned to smoothly slip through the gears of the Nash as well as my first year of marriage. But once our daughter was born and she outgrew the car bed we’d wedged into the back, we sold the car and bought a sensible Oldsmobile 98. 

My dream was put on hold until 1984 when we could afford to become a two-car family. It was May in Minnesota. The snow was melted and spring fever hit me hard. The newest incarnation of my dream was the color of root beer sprinkled with flecks of gold. An MG Midget. So small I could easily roll down the passenger window from the driver’s seat. I was 35, going on 17. I took the straight Minnesota roads as fast as that brave little car would go. And then winter came. Minnesota winter was unlike anywhere I’d lived. Weeks of 30 degrees below zero. Little car was no match for that climate. Most mornings he couldn’t start. In April I admitted defeat. We sold that baby car and once again I followed my brother’s path and bought a practical car. 

Fast forward to my 64^th summer. We are on a “fixed income” – translation semi-poor. And, although my dream never died, I decided to be content test-driving small convertible sports cars. I have photos of me driving 12 cars that summer, and in each photo I’m wearing a huge toothy smile. It was a very good summer. 

For my 65^th birthday, Alex bought me a 2006 Mazda Miata, automatic, with air conditioning. (The photo above IS my car but I've added a few scratches since we bought it!)  I’m in love. Zoom is quick and cute. He loves curves. He zips up mountain roads. But he’s not yellow. He’s shiny black. The salesman said we could have him painted. The cost would be between six and eight thousand dollars. My husband said, “Judy, you look sexy in black” – translation “Are you crazy – we’re not paying eight thousand dollars to paint a perfectly good car.” Most days I agree it would be foolish. But at times I return to the original dream that was born the day I first sat in my brother’s yellow convertible.

Did Timmy do a foolish thing when he bought his yellow 1949 Chevy convertible, or did he do a foolish thing when he sold it? His wife has died, his son lives far away, and there are no grandchildren. Timmy is 81 years old. He still drives a sensible big car. Maybe I’ll suggest that he test-drive a yellow sporty convertible. And, of course, have his photo taken as he sits behind the wheel. I’d love to see that picture of my brother wearing the smile of the young man I remember.

Friends say that we should drive Zoom to La Paz but when I called to see if Mazda stocks a cattle guard to attach to the front of Zoom, the salesperson thought I was joking.  Zoom might deflect a chicken that’s crossing Route 1but if we hit anything larger than a rooster we’d all be in trouble.  So, Zoom spends his winters in San Diego and while we’re in La Paz every time I open my computer, I’m greeted with a photo of Zoom  that proves that this  older American woman has made a wise decision – I’m living the dream that my brother planted in my heart many years ago.