Like a Southern Belle

Oh my Plymouth Caravelle! 1987 four door sedan. She was a beauty in my eyes. She had about as much desirability as an aging movie star, but she maintained character and intrigue like a Bette Davis. Dignified, with the kind of thick enamel and shiny trim you don't see on cars anymore. She was my very first.

She sat unwanted in the back of a desperate strip mall used car lot. The half Mexican manager winked at us: "For you, $700." He really wanted to push the thing off the lot, seeing nothing in her. Apparently, she'd been taking up real estate too long without passing glances of interest.

I put in the full price in cash the next day without a second thought. I was sixteen. I was lucky with money despite the overall destitute finances of our family. The car was actually for my sister. She had the license and the potential of getting us places. But we quarreled like petty sheep dogs. Sister was pushing the limits of her independence past curfew, and our lovely Caravelle was a defining point of contention. In truth, she never took me anywhere. The real arguments were between her and Father, who was trying hard to guard the Southern Belle reputation, to the point that Sis was shown the door, and walked out on foot.

I was to inherit the car as soon as I got my license, an event that took much longer than expected for various reasons. And in the end, I drove her maybe twice on my own. Yes, indeed her existence in my driving life was very fleeting, though she was the car I passed my driver's test in. Father's car broke down beyond repair at that same time and of course there was no question that the Caravelle would be his replacement. We were, to be sure, grateful that she was fortunately there to keep us all tenuously afloat.

Her bulky white body coasted on clouds thanks to superior shocks that absorbed every bump in the road. We joked it was like driving the living room couch across the country roads. I regret I knew her so very briefly. And I can see how Father would fear this was one car for getting into trouble with...

Within a year of commuting Father to work, she blew something fatal in the engine. It would have to be rebuilt, and everyone shook their heads professionally and said she wasn't at all worth it. Father agreed. She had served out her youth and was hauled to the junk yard as a glamorous but no longer useful thing.