On A Magic Carpet Ride

To this day, there’s absolutely no explanation for my infatuation with classic Ford Mustangs. I know nothing about cars. I never did. But I can tell you when I first took notice of the Mustang, I fell head-over-heels in love-for a car. My parents were always trading cars. Because of their friendship with an Oldsmobile dealer, brands like Cutlass, Toronado, and the Ninety-Eight took turns sitting in our driveway. My father also had a thing for Lincoln Continentals. He was a funeral director so those cars were always black-always spotless and always off limits to those of us just itching to drive something-anything. Once in awhile during the summer he’d come home for lunch in a funeral van sort-of-thing. It too was black. He’d let us take it out beyond the hayfield while he ate. My cousins and I had lots of fun going over the wooden planks that spanned the creek. Then stepping on the pedal, we’d fly up the gravel road and across the open space to the woods. We never told my father how fast we had the old thing going. Looking back, I’m sure he knew.

A yellow GTO was my older brother’s choice. It went great with his red hair and crew cut. At least the girls thought so. At one point, he owned a little TR3 which he let me take for a test drive into town. With this my first experience maneuvering a stick shift, I ended up in someone’s front yard. I didn’t say anything but I’m certain my brother knew something had happened by the look on my face when I came screeching into the driveway jerking all the way.
While this was the era of muscle cars-everything from the Camaro to the Thunderbird to the Barracuda and Todd and Buzz  zooming along Route 66 in their Corvette convertible, not one of those hot cars made me feel the same way as when my eyes came upon the 1964 Mustang with bucket seats and a stick shift in between. I became obsessed with this car. The Mustang had it all or what I should say, what that vehicle had hit a chord somewhere. The way those seats sat-the shape-oh I loved the shape-the sleek front and how the back end was short, leading to those tucked-in rear lights-the way it’d move along the highway following a beat of its own and making a statement of freedom, coolness, and watch out world, here I come sort of thing all contributed to this overwhelming awestruck feeling. My father’s cars were ok but nothing too exciting. My brother’s cars-well they were his. But the Mustang was unique-from its galloping horse logo to its distinct design and I claimed it as mine.
I was hired right out of college. Once I got my feet on the ground, I asked my father to go with me to a Ford dealership. What might have been one of the easiest car sales ever occurred minutes upon opening their door. I didn’t need the pitch. I didn’t have to hear the spin. Once everything was in order, I was heading down my version of Route 66 in an all new, cherry red 1968 Mustang with black bucket seats and a stick shift in between. If ever there was a love story written between a car and its owner it was written that day. If ever freedom was experienced and exhilaration on high it happened that day as a cherry red Mustang took me along the asphalt-around curves and up hills on a magic carpet ride with my hair flying and tunes playing.