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The 64 Mustang And Dad
My Dad had become a Chrysler man. Dad always kept his New Yorker in good shape. He swore by that car. I was a Ford man. I had recently purchased an almost new (less than a 1000 miles) 1965 Mustang Convertible. It was literally one in a million. My dad was not impressed.
One evening my Mother asked what I was doing the next day? She then explained that Dad was having some problems with the New Yorker and could he borrow my Mustang for work while she took the New Yorker to his favorite garage? I told her that it was not a problem.
As soon as I had the chance, I could not resist commenting on a Ford coming to the rescue of a Chrysler. (On previous occasions the shoe had been on the other foot. A couple of my first vehicles had been pretty well used by the time I owned them.) He did not answer, however.
I gave him the keys. Off he went the next morning. That evening he returned my keys. I asked, “What is it like to drive a quality vehicle.” His comment was, “It was OK”. The inflection in his voice really said, “It was better than walking, end of discussion.” He turned and walked away.
Years later my dad was informed he had terminal cancer. Shortly before his death, he presented me with a model of that Mustang. It was beautiful. It was a Franklin Mint reproduction with wheels that turned, trunk hood and doors, opened, and everything from spare tire to engine was in perfect scale. The colors were also identical to mine. The only thing missing was the “Saddleback clock and tachometer” that saddled the steering column. (This was a special option that only a true Mustang enthusiast would be aware of.)
“Why this”, I said, “I always thought you considered me foolish for purchasing that car?”
He then explained how on that day many years ago, when he drove to work, people would wave as he went by. When arriving at work, a few co-workers came over to check out the Mustang. At lunchtime it was the talk of the department. A large group talked him into going out and showing it to them. He was enjoying the attention.
The clincher however, came when someone said, “It’s about time you got rid of that other piece of junk and purchased a real car.”
Dad had been really hurt by the unintentional statement. When he returned home, he wished he had never driven the Mustang. That evening
when I had asked how it felt to drive a quality car; had been the finale insult and injury.
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