Memories of a '55 Chevy

by Avis A Townsend

I got my first car in 1965 – a '55 Chevy Bel Air, green and white. It had belonged to a neighbor man who'd died, and my parents thought it would be a good solid car for me. I hated it from the day I climbed inside, but it was drivable. I could go quite far on a quarter's worth of gasoline, and I could fit a lot of kids in the trunk when sneaking them into the drive-in movie. My parents bought it for me, but I had to pay them back the $150 over time. I also had to pay $80 a year for car insurance. I wasn't allowed to drive it until I'd graduated from high school, and I watched it sit in the side yard for months, waiting.

It wasn't cool and modern like I'd hoped. My parents had always taught me that sensible was better – shoes, clothing, and now a '55 Chevy. I never agreed with their ideas of sensible. But the car took me on many adventures, always with my friends. We drove to far-away school basketball games, did "donuts" in shopping center parking lots, and even slid down into a ditch in the middle of a snowstorm. My friend's tractor pulled us out after we'd walked the three miles to his house in zero degree temperatures to get it.

One summer day I picked up my friend Pete, and he thought he'd be funny and ride on the hood, which was square and flat and easy to sit on. I decided to give him the scare of his life, so I sped up to about forty and then slammed on the brake. Imagine my horror when Pete shot off the hood, still in the sitting position, and hit the road many feet away, rolling down the pavement like an acrobat. I could have killed him, but he came away from it with a few scratches. I never tried that stunt again.

The old Bel Air had seen better days. There was no defroster on the instrument panel, but the former owner had installed a tiny fan, its wiring connected somewhere under the dash; and when the windshield clouded over, the fan went on via manual switch and blew away the steam. In the winter, however, when it was too cold outside, the car's heater could not warm the interior, and the little fan did nothing but create ice crystals on the inside of the windshield. I needed to stop every few blocks to scrape both inside and outside so I could see to continue driving.

After less than a year of ownership, I was driving the car to a job interview in a nearby city. It was January, but the temperatures were above freezing and the sun was shining. I didn't have to worry about the defroster or the heater, and after the interview I headed home down "Rattlesnake Hill." Until that point, I thought the area got its name from snakes that had been there in the 1800's. Instead, the hill was named for its twists and turns. It was fun steering the car sharply right, then sharply left. As I was getting ready to steer left, the car hit a patch of slush. Instead of turning, it continued on in a straight path, and it slammed through several small trees before coming to rest at the bottom of the hill, its nose straight down into Rattlesnake Creek.

My glasses had been knocked off my face by the steering wheel, and I was knocked unconscious for a second or two. When I came to my senses, the engine was roaring, but my foot was not on the accelerator, because I'd been thrown to the right side of the car. Both doors were wedged between two trees, which probably saved the car from flipping over in the creek. I cranked open the windows after pulling myself back to the driver's side and I crawled out that way. First I turned the key, shutting off the engine, worried that the car would blow up before I could get out. I could only climb over the steering wheel. A tree was in the way of the passenger's side window.

It took me a long time to pull myself out, then crawl and pull myself up the hill to the roadway. I knew I'd have to walk more than a mile to find a house where I could make a phone call. There were no cell phones in 1966, and unless someone came by to help me, it would be a long walk. Blood ran down my leg, from my knee into my boot.

As I was walking, a man pulled up and rolled down his window. "Is that your Chevy back there?" he asked.

When I said it was, he drove off laughing. No help there.

Finally I approached the first house. No one was home, so I went to the next one. A woman came to the door, and when I explained I'd had an accident, she didn't believe me, not seeing a car. I showed her my bloody leg and she asked me to stay on her porch while she called the police. After about ten minutes, a patrol car pulled up and took me to the hospital for observation.

My parents got a friend to tow the car home. It sat in the front yard, crumpled and broken, for a few months before they sold it to a salvage company. Nothing was fixable. My 1955 Chevy now resembled an Edsel, pushed-in nose and all.

I never got the job, and it was months before I found one that would help me pay for my next car, which was not a Bel Air.