Recently a friend and I were chatting about the cars we'd had during our lifetimes; the ones we loved, the ones that never ran right, and the ones that tried to kill us outright. We're planning an evening sometime soon to tell each other the more elaborate stories, but I promised myself I would write about one special car—the first van my father bought me.
I confessed to my friend that since high school, I'd always wanted a customized van. Remember, the vans of the 70s, painted with livid murals depicting: (chose any two) wild horses; Southwestern theme; sea creatures; wizards; galaxies; long, dark haired maidens; long, blond haired maidens? (Only I was going to have something more dainty and lady-like painted on mine. I think.) It just seemed the perfect thing, to jump in your van, take off down the road, have bed/kitchen/living room following right with you. As a farm girl, the lack of a bathroom never bothered me; squatting in ditches to “pick flowers” was nothing new to me, so I figured out that I'd be set to see the world. Or at least the United States. Oh, who am I kidding? At age 18, I would have been to scared too explore my home state of Missouri by myself!
But young single women don't exactly bring home the kind of money that will buy a tricked out van, new or used. So my first car was a 1976 blue Ford Mustang, which my father promptly dubbed “The Stang”. His first fatherly instinct was to buy me ramps and teach me how to change the oil, which is another hilarious father-daughter-automobile story in itself. The story I want to tell today happens at a much later date, when I am grown and living in my second house, a older and more adventurous woman who now knows how and where to pitch a tent.
I've always regretted that I wasn't along on that trip to the Ozarks where my father found the van we came to know as Primer. I don't remember why he was there, but I do know it was a trip that involved my mother, who had her own dark version of what happened that day. Daddy saw the van with a for sale sign propped in its window on some lonely red dirt road, and pulled over to look at it. There were no before pictures, but my mother said it was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen, and she was appalled when Daddy made her write a check for it, then and there. Underneath it all, I doubt that she was surprised that he was buying it for me; what she didn't realize was that it was only a sign of things to come. Before he died, my father would buy at least two other junker cars for me; two more wondrous chapters that my father would add to my life. I'd still trade those stories for a few more years with him, but since I can't have him back, I'll take the memory of his efforts to help me live my dreams.
Daddy was a master storyteller; I often wonder what his life would have been like if he'd been encouraged to write. At the last, someone did: his therapist. It was too little, too late, which often serves as a reminder to me to write as much as I can, to dump out all the emotions and feelings and festering doubts. Not for public consumption, mind you, but to exorcise my frequently overheated imagination. So when he invited me to come see his latest “prize”, I was intrigued by his hints. Either a great story or a huge tall tale were coming, and both held the promise of laughter.
My first sight of Primer was in the old garage on the farm. My father and his friend Floyd had spent several more days sanding down the old coat of paint than they'd planned, due to the nature of the last coat of paint applied to Primer. Seems Primer had come from aging hippies, whose response to “how do we cover up this newspaper logo on our new-to-us van the cheapest/fastest way?” was every graffiti artist's dream: lots and lots of spray paint. The aging hippies chose basic black for its covering properties, and simply sprayed the 1973 Ford Econoline van from bottom to as high as they could reach. They also reasoned that even more paint in the areas that were starting to rust would seal that little problem. Since Primer came from the Minneapolis area, famous for the heavy salting of its winter streets, there were many of these problem areas; Daddy often joked that since Primer was more Bondo than metal, he should have bought stock in that particular company.
Aside from the fact that the spray paint was sticky and a bitch to sand off, there were other problems. When Daddy started the drive home, on tire tread thin as tar paper, he discovered that the brakes were mere ghosts of their former selves. (Since my father is responsible for several fears surrounding riding with a farmer, I am very glad I was not a passenger on that hilly, twisting trip. I still get carsick in a car making an attempt at a three point turn because of him.) The battery shelf was solid rust; baling wire and a long bolt served to keep the battery precariously perched under the hood.
He found that to start Primer cold, you had to go through the cumbersome process of removing the interior doghouse, then find a screwdriver to hold the carburetor open just enough to get things going. (In at least one instance, this quirk led my neighbor to think that one of my friends was stealing my van. Thank God she didn't give into the temptation to call the cops!) Daily fuel priming and the fact that I never got around to getting the primer coat covered with a new shade of paint led to us fondly refer to this heap of rust and decay as “Primer”.
But it ran like a trouper once it was started, it didn't leak, it had those wonderful window wing vents that I miss so much on modern cars, and it was soooo much fun, even without power steering. I took it camping and hauled just about everything in it. I remember having to take a boom box along on long trips for music, since the radio and baling wire antennae were unreliable. I would wedge it on top of the doghouse, and sing along with Jimmy tapes as I headed towards Roaring River.
As for customizing it, well, let's just say that you can fit a full sized antique metal bed frame in there, throw on a mattress, and still have room under the bed to haul lumber or camping supplies. To others, I'm sure it seemed like a party wagon. To me, it was the freedom to go where I wanted, and visible proof of my father's love and desire to help me live my dreams.
