The Cherrybomb

Is there anyone who doesn't love to wax nostalgic about their first car? I certainly do--she was a real character. The Cherrybomb (Cherry for short) was a 1963 push-button transmission Plymouth Valiant which had once been bright red but was pretty faded by the time I took possession. Cherry had a wonderfully simple slant-6 engine, and even I could deal adequately with some basics, like popping the hood and manually opening the choke when she didn't want to start. She often did not want to start.

Cherry developed a strange habit of beeping all by herself at one point, sitting alone in the driveway, so my dad disconnected the horn. Poor lonely Cherry! But she got her revenge, and succeeded in getting our attention too.

My parents' house was at the top of a hill, and the town was at the bottom. Once summer day I was coasting down the hill and when I got to the bottom I put on the brakes as I approached the upcoming intersection. Or at least I tried to. Cherry had lost her master cylinder, and my foot went straight to the floor and there was no stopping to be had. It was clear that I was going to sail right through that intersection with the red light hanging over it, and I realized that I couldn't even honk to warn people that I was coming. There was no horn any more. So I did the only thing I could think of, and turned right.

That slowed her down a little, but not enough, and after a couple more blocks I got to another intersection with a light, and so I again turned right. Cherry was going much slower at this point, but obviously was not going to stop all the way on her own, so I opened the door, jumped out, ran to the front, and stopped the car with my own body. People have fits when they hear this part, but I didn't think I was in any real danger, and apparently I was right, because Cherry came to a stop and I live to tell about it.

Dad got the master cylinder replaced, and decided that it would be a very good idea if I once again had a horn. So he installed one, but you didn't honk it by pressing on the steering wheel like you would with normal horns. Oh no, instead you pressed down on a big black button in the middle of the dashboard. It was unique, but entirely serviceable. So at the end of the summer I drove back to college, where all my friends were delighted with the big black horn button, and would honk it indiscriminately just for the fun of it. Between the horn and the push-button transmission, Cherry and I were celebrities, in our own minor way.

Cherry developed severe indigestion of the carburetor during my senior year, and I finally replaced her and let her go back to my home town with my dad before my final quarter in college. He sold her, and I have always wondered how long she lasted before she pooped out for good. But I needed something more reliable for my student teaching experience, so with great sadness I let her go. (The replacement had his own interesting personality, by the way, but that's for another day.)

It's tempting, as my daughter approaches driving, to supply her with something relatively new and safe and boring and trustworthy, but where would be the adventure in that? Nope, she needs my battered old van instead. Everybody needs to start out life with a junker. You need the character-building experiences that come with a doubtful old car, and the harrowing thrills that just compel you to prayer. Besides, how else would she collect the stories to tell her children? I couldn't possibly deprive her of that!

Love, Spud.