In the early 1970s, when I was 5 years old, my grandmother bought a ’71 Chevrolet Chevelle. She told me I could have it when I was old enough to drive.
Ten years later, the Chevelle was sitting in her driveway. It had four flat tires, a bird’s nest built under the hood, and the interior was filled with returnable drink bottles. My dad got it running, we got it painted and I put a nice set of wheels and tires on it. It was just a two-door Malibu with a 307/2-speed Powerglide, but I loved that car. I drove it for many years and, in fact, still have it. Continue reading