My first car.

It was hideous.

It was a 1979 Plymouth Volare, dark teal-green and as loud as it was ugly.

I hated that car.

It was all I could afford with my graduation open house gift money, my dad looked it over and said it looked good mechanically, and with him helping me with insurance at the time (since I had no job due to having no car and living in BFE) I went along with it.

There are no photos, no mementos of its existence. Just as well. Unfortunately, its homely image is burned into my memory.

In 1990, I made one of my life’s most egregious errors and sold my first horse, Sugar. With the cash, I bought the best truck on the planet.

It was an ‘81 Ford F-150, it was black (or had been before the sun faded it) and it had authentic shotgun holes in the side, as the previous owner had invited a friend to shoot it, thinking unwisely that said friend wasn’t so drunk as to oblige.

I loved that truck as much as I’d hated the Plymouth.

I got it in—and out—of situations that a two wheel drive farm truck shouldn’t be able to get out of.

Sadly, there seems to be no photographic evidence of the beast, either.

That truck was replaced with my first ever brand new vehicle purchase (another epic FAIL in judgment) and I sold it for more than I’d bought it for.

Fortunately, I bought my horse back when she went up for sale. It was pure luck that I saw the ad in the paper and beat the competition to her, and my first experience in “first right of refusal” meaning absolutely nothing to many people.

This blog entry has no real purpose. That’s bad.

It just is.

Posted in freelief
Tags: first car