Big Blue

She was long, and lean, and ran like the wind. Her body was smooth, and sleek, and my mother loved her. My father loved her too. He ordered her as a gift for my mother. Daddy was big on surprise gifts. I remember the day he walked into the house dangling a set of keys.
“Anne,” he said, “your new ride is outside.”
He handed over the keys, and Mother stepped outside to meet her new love, a 1967 Chrysler Newport Custom. She was navy blue with black interior and a black vinyl top. My father bought fleet cars from the Chrysler dealer in our small West Virginia town. He told the dealership manager that he wanted to order something special for Mother. The manager got out his pad, and together they created the perfect car for my mother.
Mother loved material things. She also loved cars. Growing up in the twenties and thirties, owning an automobile was a status symbol. It was more than simply transportation. It was freedom. Most old photos of picnics, holidays, and special events included a treasured car in the background, and many of Mother’s favorite stories were laced with descriptions of weekends at the lake or in the country, and the type of the vehicle that was in her life at the time.
When my parents met, Daddy owned a little roadster convertible with a rumble seat. I’m not sure if it made him more attractive to her, but I’m sure it didn’t hurt. That car gave them something in common. She was always up for the adventure of the road. He just liked to drive.
Daddy bought Mother the Chrysler the year I got married. Neither one approved of the marriage since I was only nineteen, and my fiancé was an Air Force guy from Detroit I had met the previous year while summering at the beach. Mother was distraught. Daddy was resigned. They were both right, but knew I could not be convinced to change my mind. To soothe the mood, Daddy bought Mother a new car. She was still cranky about the wedding, but the compliments from her friends about the car at least changed the subject every now and then.
“Big Blue,” as Mother called her, was a beauty. Her big back end barely made it into the garage. Things were moved and shuffled around to make room, and Blue was pampered in that heated garage for eighteen years. She got Mother through snowstorms that kept other cars marooned on the back streets of our hilltop neighborhood, she transported family to and from the airport when Daddy died suddenly in 1970, she guided my teenage daughter through vacant parking lots while Mother gave driving lessons, and she drove Mother to and from Columbus, Ohio, on solo trips when I moved there with my daughter after the divorce from the Detroit City marriage.
In 1985, when Mother was 76 years old and Blue was 18, she began to think Blue was getting too old to be reliable transportation. Mother was fearless regarding travel, and would take off alone on all day road trips for bridge games, bingo tournaments, or shopping sprees in neighboring cities. She loved the car, but knew that only one of the pair could have chronic creaks, mysterious leaks, and trouble revving up in the morning.
She went back to the same Chrysler dealership, and found the son of the owner who sold the car to Daddy. Mother reminded him of the longstanding relationship my father had with the dealership, and started working that charm known only to elderly women. She was incredibly persuasive. People gave her what she wanted, not because she convinced them it was right, but because she wore them down. They knew the only way to get her gone was to say yes.
The new Dodge Diplomat had all the bells and whistles, but it wasn’t Blue. Part of the deal mother made with the salesman was storage of Blue for an unspecified period of time in the new car warehouse. I am sure he thought it would only be a few months. It turned out to be three years. Mother wanted covered, heated parking for her baby. She succeeded.
In 1988, Mother visited my new home in Philadelphia. She saw with her own eyes the garage that would house her precious, and signed over the title. I was now the official owner of “Big Blue”. I had been dating a wonderful Georgia man for about a year. He agreed to fly from Atlanta to West Virginia, and help me drive Blue back to Philadelphia. I knew this was a serious relationship, and figured it would be a good time to introduce him to Mother.

Mother asked more questions about his driving abilities than his suitability as a potential son-in-law. Being a smart man, he covered questions on both topics with ease. The fact that he brought his own tools was comforting, and his ability to make Blue sound better after just a few adjustments under the hood was impressive. Mother gave all three of us her blessing, and we were off.
Our southbound road trip was a delight. Blue’s eight cylinders climbed the Allegheny Mountains with no problem, and she took the curves like a champ. The only complaint was the frequent stops for gasoline. Blue was a thirsty girl, born before all the concerns about fuel economy.
Back home in Philadelphia, Blue became part of my business road trips. Everyone loved to ride in the big car with the big engine. I took her to New Jersey; I took her to Washington, D.C.; we roamed the hills of Virginia. Everywhere we went there was always a “thumbs up” from passersby. Frequently there would be an offer to buy, which was always answered with, “Thanks anyway. Not for sale.”
When the marriage proposal came, Mother was excited. She was happy for me because she knew I was marrying a fine man. She was also happy for Blue, because she knew I was marrying a fine mechanic. We promised that when she came down for the wedding, she could take her out for a spin. By this time mother was 84, and Blue was 26. Both were certified classics.
During her Georgia years, Blue saw little time out of the garage. She made it to a few classic car expositions, but there was heavy competition from her garage-mates. Continually passed over for the cute 1965 red Mustang convertible, her drive time was scarce. But, she was always registered, ready to run, and wore her antique plates proudly. I would joke with my husband’s car buddies and tell them Blue was part of my dowry. They chuckled, and some even thought I was serious. All believed he had made a good deal both ways.
Three months after her 92nd birthday, Mother passed away. She had made me promise to keep Blue until she died. It had been my husband’s intent to restore the car to original condition, and get on the show circuit. To do that Blue would have to que up behind the 1939 Ford Coupe and 1930 Model A Ford already in line for restoration in his shop. Our retirement plans included lots of travel. There would be no time for playing with cars. Since the pre-retirement years were dwindling, so was the time available for car restoration. We faced the fact that our beloved 1967 Chrysler would have to find a new home.
We pranced her across the Internet websites specializing in classic cars. As expected, everyone wanted a “deal,” and some even mentioned using her for parts. I could hear Mother’s ashes stir in the urn! We decided to put Blue in the front yard with a big “for sale” sign and see if one of the locals would find her appealing.
First came the people who only wanted to look. After they heard the price, they didn’t even want a test drive. Then came the good old boys who already had a few Chryslers, and wanted to add to their stable. They knew she was a good car, and agreed the asking price was fair. They also knew the reality of restoring old cars. Buying the project is only the beginning of the cash it takes to get to the finished product. We knew the price was right, and the car was in good condition. Since there was no urgency to sell, she sat in the yard and waited for the right buyer.
Late in the afternoon, about a week later, my husband came in and said, “Honey, I think you have a buyer.” When I walked out I saw three teenage boys with big smiles and a light in their eyes. It took a while to figure out who the buyer was, because all of them talked about Blue as if she would be theirs, and theirs alone.
“Do you know anything about old cars?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” they all chimed in at once. They then proceeded to tell me all about 383 engines, wide turning ratios, and mushy power brakes in older cars. They knew all the details, and had all the answers.
“She needs a new turn signal switch,” I said.
“No problem,” one responded.
There’s some rust in the trunk,” I came back.
“That’s cool,” said one of the others. “We’ll cover that before we put in the speakers.”
“Oh,” I said.
I finally asked who exactly was the buyer. He identified himself from his two other buddies, said the price was agreeable and went home to get a deposit to hold the car until the next day. One hour later the call came.
“I just can’t come up with that much cash,” he said. “Would you be willing to work with me on financing?”
“So sorry,” I said. “I can’t get in the finance business. Listen. I know you love this car. I know you will treat her right. I’ll keep showing it, and you keep looking for more cash. Okay?” I hung up the phone and assumed that was the last I would hear from him.
The next evening he showed up at the door with cash in hand. I admit, it wasn’t my asking price, but something told me this was not the time to turn down the right buyer for a few hundred bucks. Seems he had persuaded his parents to advance him birthday money. His 20th birthday was the next week.
We typed up the bill of sale, signed on the dotted lines, and “Big Blue” was handed over to her new owner. He promised to stop by soon and show her off her new look. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. I know about the big speakers, but my husband says he heard them talking about flames, and lifters, and neon trim. Oh my!
As the new owner squealed out of our driveway, his buddy turned to my husband and said, “Man, that is one phat ride!”
“Yes,” my husband agreed. “That it is!”
At that moment the ashes in Mother’s urn puffed, and Daddy did a little twirl in his Indiana grave. It’s okay, folks. “Big Blue” is alive and well, and has a new home.
Copyright January, 2003