My first car was a '67 Rambler Rebel.  Was it "a beauty"?  No, it was a car I picked up for twenty-five bucks from my sister's girlfriend's mom.  The car had sat outside for a year, undriven, unloved, until I finally had my driver's license.  Of course, back in 1974, you could still pick up a decent, running car affordably. 

True, one window was off the track and the windshield was stained with leaves, but working with my Dad we fixed the window and a can of Coke took care of the leaf stains, and I was good to go.  The two things my Dad showed me with the car, before I could even drive it that first time were:  How To Change a Tire and, equally important, How to Change the Oil.  Now, you have to understand, my Dad did almost NOTHING with us kids.  He wasn't that kind of Dad.  In fact, the only other thing I really did with my Dad was when I was in Girl Scouts and he came to the Dad and Me meeting and we showed up every other girl and her dad there.  But, I digress.

Of course, it was a boat.  Huge car and a big engine -- yes, I was a "more power" kind of girl when it came to my cars!  Maroon, with a white hard top and an old car smell I remember to this day.  Not necessarily bad, just the way old cars used to smell!  The front seats pulled forward and reclined flat to the back seat, a feature I thought was QUITE interesting and many of the guys I knew envied.

I learned a lot with that first car.  I learned that having neighbors who were SERIOUS driveway mechanics was a good thing (got the tranny replaced for $125), that no matter what happened, my Dad would want to replace the water pump, and that cars were something that could bring a Dad and daughter closer.  My Dad wasn't about to ask how my life was going, but gosh darnit he could ask about the car.  The car became a metaphor for our relationship. 

I only owned that clunker for a couple of years, before I moved on to my Mustang, but I sometimes wonder if anyone else has found that owning their first car has changed more than their ability to get around?