“Happiness is a direction, not a place.” ~Sydney J. Harris
Cars played a big part in my life growing up in Southern California. As a kid, there was a succession of crappy old station wagons that routinely broke down on the highway because we couldn’t afford anything better.
I remember Dad standing helplessly outside in traffic as drivers slowed down to gawk at us, then sped up as they drove on into their lives.
And the rusted green ’42 Chevy pickup truck my grandfather taught me to drive years before it was legal to do so, gears grinding when I missed the shift. My legs weren’t quite long enough to get the pedal all the way to the floor.
“Lookin’ for the Heart of Saturday Night”
In high school, I was enamored with the low-riders cruising up and down the boulevards, “lookin’ for the heart of Saturday night,” as Tom Waits so poignantly wrote in his song.
You know, lots of hairspray holding up very big hair? Black eyeliner with perfectly executed tails? Carefully cultivated coolness? Like that.
Then there was the older boy, already out of high school and working … a grown-up. He drove a ’67 Chevy Impala SuperSport, with baby blue metallic paint that matched my eyes. I ended up marrying him.