It was my first car. A white 1965 Ford Mustang. I was 15, and couldn’t even drive it alone. It had a puny 6-cylinder engine. It would have struggled to beat a sewing machine in a head-to-head race. And if it was uphill, forget it! My mother intended it that way. She didn’t want her boys to have speed. My brother had a nearly identical Mustang — just as glorious to look at. Just as slow. But, man, you felt good driving down the road in that thing. Like you were the coolest thing in the world. Windows down. Elbow propped on the door. Other arm stretched across the passenger seat. Maybe there was a lady over there. (Usually there wasn’t.) Cool wind through your hair. Good tunes on the radio. People watching as you rolled by. Man! Then a hubcap would break loose, sprinting into traffic and causing automotive chaos. Like all old cars, my Mustang had its quirks. It could lose a hubcap while standing still. There were other “eccentricities.” The carburetor was prone to asthma attacks. The car would leak even when it wasn’t raining. And when it did rain, the brakes flipped a coin to decide whether to show up for work. Tails you lose … goodbye red light! What a car. I’ve kept it all these years. For the longest time it had been parked at my brother’s house, unused and forgotten. Needing work. Needing love. Needing someone to drive with an elbow out the […]