My first car was a 1951 Ford. It was not want I wanted but it was what I could afford. But I kind of don't look at that as being my first car memories. I prefer to think I was in a transitional phase - not really aware of what I was doing. So that car doesn't count but serves as a pivotal step into getting the car I pined for. And I will tell you what it was. It was a '55 Chevy. Would you believe my older brother had one? I wanted it! I coveted it! I plotted for it! All the kids in school who were considered cool' drove a '55 or '56 Chevy. Even if the car belonged to Dad, they were still cool because they were driving the car. My brother was older and, therefore, legal to drive. I was not. But I still hoped that one day I would enter the zone of coolness' and have my own '55 Chevy.

The closest way my girlfriends and I could get accepted or be included in the "Happy Day's bunch" was to mimic them in all that they did; with the one exception of not having a Chevy. My girlfriends would get their parents' car on a Friday or Saturday night and we would tool the loop'. This circuit took us from the north end of town to the south and included driving through A&W, Triple XXX Root Beer Stand and Cubby Burgers. And on occasion (if we saw some cool guys) we would stop and have a burger and fries - to be as close as possible in acting like the bunch. Hopefully, by osmosis, we belonged. And we kind of did! We did our thing. Our coolness' was patterned after them. But, you can be sure; we definitely took note of who was driving what.

It was customary in tooling the loop', to stop and park the cars at different locations in the loop and watch the cavalcade of cars parade by. We could take note if Jennie was with Bob or, "Oh, No! I wonder if Lisa knows Esther's riding in Jerry's car." We counted the Chevies. We counted the Buicks. We counted the Plymouths. We counted the Mustangs. But the only car that really mattered to me was the '55 Chevy.

The Viet Nam war came. My brother was drafted. I wondered what was going to happen to his car. Who was going to take care of it? My concerns, I'm sure, were more selfish than genuine. My brother and I were quite close. I wasn't aware of the impact of the war and how that would change our lives and, ultimately, our relationship. Then an idea popped into my head. I could have his car! He would not be able to drive it. He would be gone for two years. My parents weren't interested in driving it. It seems everyone was more

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