Driving Me Happy, Chapter 1 – Bugged

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

When my family first moved to the Finger Lakes Region of New York, in 1978, there were still many air-cooled Volkswagen varieties on local roads. Beetles, and their progeny, were a familiar sight. This fit the Bohemian ethos of our new home, a place known for institutions of higher learning like Cornell University and Ithaca College. And for citizens that were artistic, progressive, and willing to embrace a worldview different from that of the heartland.

 

But when I crash-landed back in my native Ohio, some five years later, it quickly became apparent that driving such a relic from the Hippie Era was something that did not fit the Midwestern paradigm. In my quaint outpost, south of Lake Erie, there were more pickup trucks prowling local streets than anything else. I guessed that this was partly the yield of living in a region that regularly experienced bouts of snow that were deepened by our proximity to a large body of water. But also, the rural character of Geauga County, something that was in flux with immigrants coming from Cleveland, still held to old norms of transportation. So, much like carrying a pocket knife, or a driving around with toolkit, or gun rack onboard, it was a sign that an old bromide regarding seedling nuts still remained in effect.

 

“The acorn does not fall far from the tree.”

 

In my native, Buckeye realm, poor people drove these 4x4 haulers. Rich people drove them as well. Everyday mothers and fathers, and teachers, and their students, all drove them, loyally. Oldsters and youngsters and anyone in between. There were jacked-up, big rigs running on oversized tires, tiny, Japanese variants that barely had enough cargo area to load a plastic storage tote, and even Jeep versions with beds that were stubby and all but useless. What seemed to matter most was being a member of the tribe. Those who drove plain sedans and economy cars were condemned to languishing in anonymity. Unless, of course, they were behind the wheel of something like a Corvette, Firebird Trans Am, Camaro, or vintage, Tri-Five Chevrolet.

 

My white, 1973 VW stood out as a rolling counterpoint to this way of thinking. In my former neighborhood, it would have been celebrated, and perhaps, even revered, as a sign of cultural rebellion. Yet with too many miles on the odometer, a sagging floor pan due to rust and abuse, and a motor long past the point of useful service, it simply puttered around in a pitiful display of mechanical exhaustion. The 1600 cc, flat-four powerplant would overheat and stall, generally at inopportune moments. When I was far from any sort of rescue, or ridesharing assistance. There was no heat in the winter. The gas pedal had broken, as did its replacement from a dealership in Mentor, situated to our north. I ended up finding a plastic roller with a hole in the center, a castoff, spare part that was in a box of junk by my father’s tool chest. This worked well enough when stuck on a metal peg attached to my vehicle’s accelerator linkage. Though it meant getting used to the odd feel of a circular disc turning under my right shoe.

 

I had only been back in Ohio for about eleven months, when the need to upgrade became painfully obvious. Even members of my household agreed. After years of lacking discipline, and wandering from one bad situation to another, I had managed to inhabit our homestead for nearly a year. I held a regular job, something that had been beyond my grasp while living in the Empire State. Now, I needed to complete that metamorphosis by purchasing a modern appliance for daily transportation. Something that would get me to work, and elsewhere, without busting my personal budget. A mode of transportation made in America, practically designed, and acceptable at every level of the social strata.

 

I dutifully browsed through options without buying anything, basically to please my parents. These near-misses included a Honda Civic with a rotted muffler, and a Dodge station wagon much like the Country Squire behemoths that populated our own family driveways. I thought of buying a new vehicle of some sort, but could not afford the payments. Eventually, a 1981 Chevy Chevette appeared at our Pontiac dealer on Water Street, literally within walking distance of my adopted house. It was three model-years old, had low mileage on the dashboard gauge, and was a five-door version, with the hatchback design so familiar to those of us in North America.

 

We negotiated with Phil Vaughan, a veteran salesman who liked that my genetic author was a Christian cleric. He spent much of the session talking about Jesus and the Holy Bible, and issues of faith. But when it came time to nail down a firm price, with my ratty Volkswagen being taken in trade, suddenly, this faithful disposition evaporated. With teeth clenched and his fists on the desk, he pitched a hard bargain. Financing would be difficult, because I had no credit history, and my father carried many red flags over his own money management skills. So, we were at his mercy. I had no down payment. Desperation set the tone for our bargaining.

 

Somehow, despite these faults, I managed to get a loan approved through Huntington Bank.

 

Upon leaving the lot, I looked backward one time to see my decrepit VW being pawed over like a decaying animal carcass. The sight turned my stomach. I felt undeniably sad to be surrendering that important part of my personal identity. Yet the beige Chevette felt like a luxury car compared to that venerable hunk of Teutonic tin. It had carpeted floors, a cloth interior, an AM/FM radio in the dash, a rear defroster, and enough power to cruise at 70 mph on the highway. I soon recorded 40 mpg as an average of fuel consumption, better than any figure achieved by my worn-out, German coupe.

 

My Chevette went against the grain of family traditions, being a GM offering, instead of some wild foreign make, or a product of Detroit’s Ford Motor Company. We had seen vehicles by Renault, Saab, Simca, and Peugeot in our yard, over the years. Along with a Corvair Greenbrier van, and a diesel Golf. This latest acquisition was bland and boring. But it promised to yield the qualities that I needed as a low-buck laborer.

 

My pockets were empty. But my heart was full of hope. That provided a compass reading for the future. I was ready to go forward, and prosper.