1975 and 1969 are years that are forever connected in my fond memories. In 1975, I got my driver’s license and bought a 1969 Camaro.
Dad co-signed and followed me home. Mom was waiting at the side door when I pulled into the driveway like a conquering warlord. For a 16-year-old boy, this was triumph; this was the ultimate.
My love for that car was extravagant. I bought her the best wax. I spent all of my money and most of my time upgrading and detailing. Rust was surgically removed. Dirt never saw the sunrise. A new paint job, a new exhaust system (Hush Thrush), new mag wheels, high-performance parts, and a “nuclear” stereo system were lovingly applied. I spent entire Saturdays working in and on my car – it was all that mattered.
I sold her in 1977 with a lump in my throat. The buyer totaled her six months later. For all my love, she rusts away in an Iowa junkyard. In the process of growing up, I’ve learned to love people and use things. But I’ve also noted that growing old often destroys our sense of wonder.
We all should know that feeling of sixteen-year-old wonder, not because of what we possess, but because of what possesses us.
Reposted with permission from onehope.net.