Mission accomplished.

I think my response will be guided by the times I remember being in and around each auto.

Growing up, I recall a Nash Rambler in the garage. I do not recall any of the specifics of that, perhaps it was primarily used on grocery runs and whatnot around town.

Sometime thereafter, I seem to recall my dad getting a ’65 Mustang. I think the receipt is somewhere in a bin, downstairs. New off the lot, for about $2500. Sheesh. My mom had one of those Ford stationwagons with the paneled sides, and a seat for us urchins facing backwards. That took us to practices, on many trips to Gramps and Gram, West and South, as well as the vacations to go fishing in the UP. I think when I first started to drive, I used her car to tool around, listening to the “Loop” and XRT on the FM converter.

Once highschool hit, we tended to travel via the “Moe-Mobile”, a Plymouth Fury, I think, the size of a yacht. All of us scoundrels fit perfectly within it. We defined death and destruction in that car, perfecting a ride we named “Weeeee!”, where we sped down a hilly road, turned off the lights and hit our noggins on the roof each descent.

One summer, four of us drove straight through to Hilton Head, in a hatch-back Vega, leaking oil, overcome by B.O. and Frito feet. Yikes.

The following year, somehow, we were granted permission to use the Moe Mobile 2.0. Larger capacity for the four of us, FM stereo, and air conditioning. B.O. is still the same aroma, hot or cold.

But the coolest one ever was the summer my linemate had access to a ’76 Eldorado convertible through his dad’s work. White with red interior. Front wheel drive, three across the front seat and at least four in the back. The top never went up and we never used the doors. It was jump in, start ‘er up and go, with Ted Nugent or Blue Oyster Cult blaring at 11.

Today, I just need wheels.

Then, it was just about making some great memories.

Mission accomplished.