Dad was born in 1914, and my mom arrived in 1920. As such, some of their formative years were spent in the midst of the great depression. It left a mark on each of them. They were very conservative with spending the money that came into the household. And with Dad a guitar player and Mom a waitress, there was not a huge cash flow to begin with.
They did not buy things on credit. When they wanted something, they saved for it. So it was with their first new car. Dad had been driving around for a while in a somewhat broken-down red Oldsmobile that tended to stop working at inopportune times. (Mom didn’t drive.) As a musician who played weddings and other events at scattered venues around the Philly area, Dad needed reliable transportation. When their frustration reached a tipping point, and enough savings were on hand, they made a decision to buy a new car.
They settled on the 1965 Chevrolet Biscayne, which retailed for about $2,500, and was a step or two down from the more expensive Chevrolet Impala. It was a memorable summer day when they brought home an absolutely new, willow green, four-door, six-cylinder beauty. It lacked air conditioning and did not have power steering, neither of which were standard back then, but was a marked improvement over our former bucket of bolts. Dad drove us about our row home neighborhood to show the car off and told us to keep the windows up despite the heat. That way, the neighbors would think that it did have air conditioning.
For a few weeks, Dad paid meticulous attention to it. If he saw from the house that a leaf had fallen on it, one of us kids was dispatched out to the street to pick it off. Dad even took to parking it halfway up the block to avoid leaving it beneath the trees and their ever-present pigeons. He regaled us more than once with a tale of a musician friend who had bought a new car and then went a bit nutty worrying about it getting dented or harmed in some way. The concern grew to be overwhelming, and the fellow needed to free his mind. So, he took a hammer and put a dent in the car himself to relieve his mental pressure. I guess he felt better after that. Dad didn’t harm his own car, but slowly his focus on it lessened.
Now, we need to flash forward eight years to 1973. I graduated from high school in June and would be driving to community college every day in the fall. There were two hurdles – I didn’t have a driver’s license, and I didn’t have a car. I have written previously about learning to drive from possibly the world’s worst teacher – my father – and eventually securing a license. But obtaining a car was another matter. I had a small nest egg, but that money was supposed to be for tuition.
Luckily, my parents were able to give me the Biscayne while they went out and bought their second new car ever, a Plymouth Scamp. I can’t imagine that Dad was happy to be spending money for another new car. However, I can imagine him being happy to show it off to his friends. I was set, then, for daily transport back and forth from home in Northeast Philly to Bucks County Community College, in Newtown, PA, a trip each way of about sixteen miles taken on local roads.
Having a car really provided a sense of freedom and unlimited possibilities. No longer did I have to beg for rides from Dad or take public transportation. I was free and sometimes would just take long rides in the Biscayne by myself, listening to WFIL on the radio and with no particular destination in mind.
The first several months of commuting were without incident, and I was growing confident as my driving experience increased. Then, Margaret Maloney (not her real name) entered my life in a most unexpected way. I was driving home on Route 532, a two-lane road within Bucks County. There were cross-roads, but they all stopped or yielded to traffic on 532. The traffic was light that day. As I bopped along, I saw a car in the near distance on the left at a cross-road come to a halt. I did not see the driver’s face, but I sensed nothing out of the ordinary and continued without slowing. As I approached the intersection, the car unbelievably accelerated straight out into the road. I had no chance to swerve or apply my brakes. The Biscayne and I were broadsided.
I got out of the car, and the other driver – Margaret as I was soon to learn – was still seated and gripping the wheel. She said these words to me, “I stopped, but I didn’t look.” It turns out that she was running behind schedule and needed to pick up her child at school. Her mind was elsewhere.
Neither of us were injured badly. But the immediate aftermath was a bit ugly. Her husband showed up and started blaming me for the accident, based on my age, I guess. Dad and the Scamp eventually, arrived, too, and he played peacemaker, telling the husband, “That’s why we have insurance.”
The Biscayne was a mess. It was towed to a car repair shop, and a buddy drove me to visit it a few days later. I was waiting for a determination from the insurance company. It was a foggy night, and as I looked at the car I just felt sad. Eventually, the insurance company declared it totaled and sent a check equivalent to its eight-year-old value. Not much.
It was a painful episode, both physically and mentally. I had some residual back pain that lasted for weeks. Dad hoped that a doctor would latch onto this as a whiplash case and allow us to get some more money out of the insurance company. I was more interested in having my back feel better. And that was the doctor’s only goal as well. That was disappointing to Dad.
And what did Margaret Maloney teach me? Just because someone appears to be doing the right thing on the road, that doesn’t mean that you should let down your guard. From that day, I have remained cautious and distrustful of others while driving. Face it, we don’t know any of those people with whom we share the road. Many are just as cautious as me, while some are not focused or just don’t care about others. It is better to just assume the worst about all other drivers.