7 of 50

Write now Article Tools

My dad gave me my first car the summer I turned seventeen. I had pestered him for more than a year. I thumbed catalogs at the local auto parts store (it was 1980, long before the Internet). I envisioned a Mustang, maybe a 280ZX. I had no particular car in mind, just dreams of something sport, fun. You know what I mean.

So when my dad told me he had my car and I walked outside, I just about cried.
A rust-covered 1969 Toyota Corolla Station Wagon sat in the driveway. We sanded that car for days and then painted and detailed it. We tore its engine apart and rebuilt it together. I put in my first transmission.

Even so, driving to school my senior year was a trip. Talk about shake, rattle, and roll, to me, the Corolla was your basic tin box on wheels.

While I never learned to love that car, the vision of working late at night in the garage with my dad remains precious. The hard work we put into stripping the paint from the car. His grease-covered hands as he handed me a wrench. I have never been a car guy. But at times, I wish I were, just so I could give my son that same experience.

The car is gone, but my memories live on.

Learn more about this author, Brad Kincaid.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

Add your voice

Know something about Reflections: My first car?
We want to hear your view. Write now!