by Isabel Callejo-Brighton

 

            Over the years, I have heard stories about the old cars that have been in my family.  Some of them, so I’ve been told, were a lot of fun to drive, and others didn’t really drive at all.  I’ve heard of the bucking bronco and the ladybug, the XJ8, the English Austin and many, many more. Some of them I’ve actually had a ride in and others were long gone by my time.  Most people would agree that cars are supposed to transport people from point A to point B, but some people would argue that they’re more status symbols than anything else; it’s all about what’s under ‘da hood’.  They might have a power name, a power engine, power steering, power horn, power stick shift or even power floor mats.  Others might say that their used car is parked permanently at the repair shop. 

 

1984 Ford Escort- “The Bucking Bronco”

            The first car I remember is my dad’s 1984 Ford Escort.  My mom called it the Bucking Bronco.  It was red, small and usually had pine needles stuck in the wind shield wipers.  Despite its name, it really didn’t escort anyone anywhere.  Like any other car made in the 80s, it definitely had its quirks.  The worst was its tendency to stall and make its own inconveniently timed decisions, like it had a mind of its own. 

            We were preparing for my brother’s 10^th birthday and we needed balloons. My mom and I set out in search for the decorations while my dad fixed up the back yard and started up the BBQ.  We were prepared to take our Honda Accord (another story), but as we left the back yard, my dad said, “Hey Chesca, would you mind taking the Ford, she’s gotta be filled up,” as he threw her the huge, square-shaped, ugly looking key.  (Note, only we called it the Bucking Bronco, my dad called it his _______).  My mom didn’t even attempt to catch the keys and let them fall with a harsh, metallic “CLANG” on the cement.  I picked them up enthusiastically and began running to the old Bronco before she could protest.  I loved riding in the Bucking Bronco because it always meant another adventure.

            As we clambered into the old Bronco and strapped ourselves in (my mom made sure mine was securely fastened), it started to creep out of our parking place.  My mom stepped on the gas and nothing happened.  She stepped on it with a little more force and the car lurched forward throwing us into the back of our seats.  “Piece of junk,” my mom muttered under her breath.  I nodded my head in agreement, yet I secretly loved every moment of uncertainty the car provided. 

            We successfully made the u-turn around our stop sign and slowly began chugging and shuddering up the hill.  Just as we began to sit back in our seats, the most exciting thing happened… the old Bucking Bronco began to buck.  Over the loud noise of the engine, my mom yelled to me, “Hold on Honey!” I gripped the bottom of my seat, pretending we were on a roller coaster, and the Bucking Bronco was the newest ride. Suddenly, following some good hard kicks, the old Bronco’s engine died.  We weren’t but thirty feet from the house.  We had already began to ascend the very small slope to my street so when the Bronco decided to quit on us, we began to roll backwards.  My mom let out a huge sigh and rolled her eyes.  I was grinning from ear to ear.  In complete defeat, we bumbled down the hill in reverse; the bronco sputtering with fits and starts.  It looked like the Bronco had prevailed once again.

 

1958 VW Bug- “The Lady Bug”

            This is the car my mom grew up with.  To say the least, it was special. When my grandparents owned it, they were able to make it their family car.  They were able to squeeze nine kids in it to go to Golden Gate Park, every one just pilled on top of each other, like sardines in a can. They were able to bring many Christmas trees home, even though it meant it would stick out of the top of the sun roof two or three feet, and shower my mom with needles.  She was the resident Christmas-tree-in-the-bug holder.    They were even able to attach camping equipment to the top of the bug, tent poles and all, flapping in the wind on the way up to Lake Tahoe.  Those were the days.  In the days before seat belts, almost anything was possible in that old Bug.  On any cold morning in San Francisco, it was a piece of cake to get the old bug started if the battery had died, as it frequently did.  Just push it out of the carport, hop in as it started to roll down the hill, shift it into first, and it’d start right up.

            My mom had many childhood memories with the bug, which is why she reacted so strongly when she saw it in a Longs parking lot a couple of years ago.  MVV 494 was the license plate and she spotted it immediately. Whenever we would pass a dark blue bug, she would crane her neck to see if it was her old bug, corroded floorboards, tiny sunroof, MVV 494, and all. 

 

 

 

1952 Austin- “The Brit”

            When my dad was growing up, they’d have a new car every couple of years.  When I say “new” I rather mean “different”, because their Austin was used, 15 or 20 years when they got it.  Back then it was considered an economy car.  It had four cylinders, four doors, and a cramped back seat.  The radio would sporadically turn on, and the front seats would recline unexpectedly, but those were the least of its problems.  Since it was an older car, the brakes had seen better days.  My grandpa bought it to have fun with, and boy the fun they had. 

            One day my dad and his friend Steve Nanini were playing basketball in my dad’s drive way.  Nanini was Italian, slow, and extremely over weight.  After an exhaustive game of H-O-R-S-E, Steve leaned on the back of the car trying to catch is breath.  Ever so slowly, the Austin began to roll forward, Nanini’s weight overpowering the decrepit break pads.  Before my dad knew it, the Austin was on its own little adventure coasting down the street with Nanini running behind it.  After a couple of houses had passed, my dad saw Nanini hop into the front seat, and jerk up the hand break just as it nicked the neighbor’s sparkling new Ford.  Unlike the Bucking Bronco, which preferred to stay right where it was, the Austin couldn’t wait to leave its parking spot, whatever the cost.

 

2001 XJ8- “The Jag”

            Whenever you hear those commercials on the radio for the new XJ8 and the announcer is British and they always say Jaguar like Jag-oo-ar, it’s as if it’s something no one has heard of before, except for the fact that everyone has, and only wishes they could afford one.  Actually owning a Jag makes you feel like you own a perfect, untouchable, pristine car that really is a symbol of wealth and power.  Well, I suppose that works in some people’s cases… in my grandfather’s however, it just isn’t so.  When my grandparents got their Bichon Frise Dolly a few years back, the Jag became her primary mode of transportation.  She has her own little white mat put on the leather seat of the car where she can chew her rawhide bone in peace.  She rides shotgun always, and next to “her window” there are deep indentations of where her claws have dug time and time again.  The window has dog-nose smudges covering it from top to bottom, and when my gramps is driving, she has free reign of the car. 

            I’m not really sure how the Jag feels about this, but if I were him, I’d start to poop out… which may be why the A/C has started to act out.

 

Year (Unknown), Model (Unknown)- “The Commander”

            Every year on Thanksgiving, something unexpected happens in my family.  One year my grandpa broke his collarbone on his way up to our house, and we spent the majority of the day in the Altabates emergency room.  Another year my dad decided to barbeque our turkey.  Our Thanksgiving in 2003 proved even more eventful than most, its effects lasting several years. 

            On Thanksgiving morning, my mom and I had gotten up extra early to make the pumpkin, apple, and minced-meat pies.  My dad came down from upstairs at the wondrous smells wafting up the hallway, and headed outside to start the morning yard work.  After stepping out onto the porch, we heard him say, “What in the world? What the hell is THIS?” he turned around and looked at us in shock. “Franchesca, you won’t believe what’s outside,” he said, pointing through our breakfast nook window.  Just above the top of our fence, we saw a bright red, twenty-foot long camper van, with a sky blue tarp attached to the back. “Oh my god Jim, this is unbelievable,” said my mom. The only thing separating my front gate, and my tranquil, flag-stoned, fountain-sounding yard with this monstrous, sleazy camper van was a patched up five-foot piece of cracked cement sidewalk. 

            As we stepped outside our gate and walked around the great monster, we noticed the wonderful, corroding generator hanging outside of the mini-bus and the words 

“COMMANDER” painted in shoddy block lettering.  The  “ER” was slightly off kilter, and the paint was peeling off leaving only “NDER” visible from far away.  We sighed in unison.  Not only did we have to explain to all of our guests why we had this Commander in front of our house, but we had to look at it throughout our supposedly relaxing family meal.

            There was nothing we could do about it since it was a holiday, but when it hadn’t moved in more than 48-hours, my mom decided to call the Berkeley Police Department and get the eyesore “taken care of.”

            When we woke up the next morning, there were beer bottles and cigarette butts galore.  They covered the front sidewalk of our house and the stench emanating from the back of the van could only be associated with one thing: marijuana.  When a stack of six red Berkeley Police Department notifications began to pile up on the windshield of the car, my dad lost his temper and began to bang on the door of the Commander.  It was so old, I thought it was going to fall off.  It did. And after a couple minutes, some grungy looking, gut-hanging, scruffy-faced, middle-aged man appeared at the door.  He promptly flipped my dad off, lifted the door inside, and went away, blunt in hand.  And that was that.  (We saw the door attached with bungee cords the next day).

            After the Commander’s owner accumulated enough parking violations to put Bill Gates into debt, he decided to move his big brute of a camper van around the neighborhood, keeping within a four block radius of my house.  On my walk home from school each day, I’d keep an eye out for the big red Commander, and when I’d spot it, I’d tell my mom who’d phone the police.  To say the least, we wanted it out of our neighborhood.  His little system of moving every 70 hours went on like this for two and a half years.  Finally, the Commander was seized for the un paid parking tickets.

            So that was the last of it, until I saw it parked out side of Berkeley High one morning.  Or rather I heard it before I saw it.  The rumbling of the generator was only music to my ears after hearing it for so long and the only difference was the NDER was now reduced to DER. It was being towed again, and that was the last of him, I hope.

                                                                        ****

            As is apparent, my family has had a lot of experiences with cars; both good and bad… yet none of which explain the reason why I haven’t gotten my drivers license nor even learners permit… or maybe it explains everything.