Rust Bucket

I added the fourth driver to my family of seven when the State of Michigan issued my original driver’s license in February 1967.

That meant Dad’s 1959 two-tone green Dodge with its fancy fins and tail lights and push button transmission seldom saw daylight inside our tiny garage.

It’s a good thing no one in our household worked the night shift.

Well, when my older sister signed for her own VW bug to provide available and dependable transportation for after-school employment, a grand idea struck my father.

He brought home a rusted two-tone 1954 Chrysler and overhauled it in our driveway for several days. No better time than summer vacation.

I felt sorry for our older relative who crawled under the car and helped Dad chain the engine to a lift.

Then they pulled the engine out of the car! They worked for hours at a time, sweaty and greasy, overhauling the engine until they secured it behind two rusted headlights.

My father couldn’t have been happier with a tool in one hand, and a beer in the other.

One day, I overheard Dad say that this rusty car was meant for Mom and me. And my younger sister who waited next in line for her driver’s license.

Dad would at last have his 1959 finny Dodge to himself, safely parked in the garage at night. No more broken tail lights by Mom and his daughters.

Truly, the old Chrysler’s rusted headlights embarrassed me the first few times I picked up girlfriends and fellow cheerleaders at their homes.

Yet, what wonderful freedom to drive Rust Bucket east on Ten Mile Road to Groesbeck Highway and pick up a fellow cheerleader from her home for football and basketball games.

Once, Mom gave me some mail to deposit on my run to pick up my friend who lived off Groesbeck. I placed the mail on Rust Bucket’s dashboard and forgot to post it.

After I picked up my friend, as I turned left off of Groesbeck onto Ten Mile Road, the mail slid to the right and through a hole in the dashboard.

“Oh no!” my friend and I shouted.

Thankfully, traffic was light, and I retrieved every last envelope.

Albeit a bit dirty.

And yes, I posted Mom’s mail.

Throughout my years as an owner of various automobiles, I’ve recalled my adventures with Rust Bucket – watching Dad labor to provide affordable, safe transportation for his wife and daughters.

Lately, when I push the start button on my late husband’s 2017 Prius, I’ve pondered this history.

Furthermore, dear Reader, in this frozen, snowy tundra, I’ve wondered what would Mel do with his Prius that I’ve now inherited. Would he trade it in for a larger car with four-wheel drive?

Therefore, I’m meeting with my youngest daughter tomorrow at a dealership to investigate my options – four-wheel drive or all-wheel drive. And what’s the difference.

I assure you, my father would know.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com