She was born after me, but when I met her in 1963, she was old, and ugly. It was not love at first sight. When Dad brought her home, I thought he had lost his mind. She was a 1952, four-door, Plymouth Sedan. She and I would eventually accept each other and have a wonderful, loving relationship. She was to be my first car, my first love.

To my total revulsion, she was painted light green. I call it “dragon snot green”. To distance her further from my ideal, she was standard shift, “three on the tree” as we called it, meaning a three-speed transmission with the shifter on the column. I was the first generation to learn to drive with the automatic transmission, which left me free to focus on not hitting stuff, while not being distracted by such decisions as which pedal to use and “should I shift now?”

I was ashamed to be seen in the old, ugly, green thing. She was our family’s second car, and I was content to let her live out her hopefully short days in that role.

The first string or family car was no beauty. It was a ’58 Chevy (so far, so good) Nomad (Oh no) STATION WAGON. How un-cool in the days of cool was that? The only thing keeping it from being uglier than the Plymouth was that it was two-tone, white over blue, and newer. It could not have screamed, “I’m middle-class, conservative,” any louder without a PA system ala “Blues Brothers.” It was safe because it was the size of a Navy Destroyer, and it was automatic, therefore I could drive it. It was my only option until one fateful day.

It was a Saturday. Chores were done and I wanted to go to a friend’s house to “hang out” which meant, “Go cruising.” Dad said, “No,” but that was how all conversations with him began. One was required to ask again ... “No,” this time with emphasis. Third time ... “No,” shouted. That meant “No.” Now we entered into the negotiation phase.

“What am I supposed to do, stay in the house all day?” As if he cared if I ever left my room again.

He smirked at me, recognizing a point of vulnerability and an opportunity to goad, “OK, you can take the Plymouth.” He delighted in this. I had been a dismal failure at mastering clutch, and gas, much less shift. I had never gotten it to roll 20 feet without killing it.

“I can take the Plymouth?” I said as a question, but it had more the tone of a statement.

He saw the gleam in my eye, and I saw fear in his. He dropped the gauntlet I picked it up. “Yeah, if you can make it around the block, and then take me around, you can take it.”

I had him! With determination, I took the keys off the hook, walked out to the now-not-so-ugly Plymouth, got in, started the engine, depressed the clutch and eased it out until the car moved, applied the gas, rolled down the street, shifted, and never looked back. The Plymouth wanted to cruise, and we were lovers.

She was now “my car”, Betsy by name, and Heaven help you if you called her ugly. I later bought her for $500 dollars, but not before I had spent more than that on essentials. Things like a chrome gearshift ball, Baby Moon hubcaps, red lights for the interior, and a red garter for the rear-view mirror.

Since Dad would not pay for anything I broke, I also bought at least one set of tires, a new clutch, brakes, all worn trying to drag race Betsy with her flat head, six-cylinder engine. She was the first car in a line of thousands that I would fix, but it all started with my first love. Yep, Betsy and I, as strange and ugly as she was, were in love. She is a big part of what I am, and how I got this way. Explains a few things, doesn’t it?

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted at: www.starchasers.us.