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Dents and a Police Car

rides.highperformancepontiac.com

rides.highperformancepontiac.com

Cars had a way of self-destructing while I was behind the wheel.

My first car (in 1968) was beyond my wildest dream. A maroon (the current hot color) 1965 Pontiac Catalina with a James Bondish license plate of 2007-ZZ. It’s the only license number I ever memorized.

The passenger side of my car got smashed in several spots when it went off a dirt road and banged against some small trees. I was driving while the damage happened, so I suppose it was my fault.

cute-pop.com Remove a dent tool!

cute-pop.com
Remove a dent tool!

Late that night I parked on the far side of our driveway with the dented side facing away from Dad’s path to the barn. My teenage brain hoped for a miracle, such as the dents magically popping out under the heat of the morning sun.

If a miracle failed to happen overnight, plan B was ready to be implemented. I’d use our toilet-plunger on the dents and plunge them out.

I should have carried out plan B instead of waiting for the miracle.

The first thing my inquisitive Daddy-O did in the morning was meander over to see why I parked in a new spot. I never knew he had such a suspicious nature.

He circled to the far side of my car. Surprise!

My Catalina drove off to the car graveyard while I was a senior in college; one dent too many. I immediately set about creating the world’s first hybrid car.

I bought a car in Iowa, lived in Wisconsin, and continued using my New York driver’s license (an attention getter when getting carded at the Green Bay bars). I deftly replaced the yucky Iowa plate with my cool New York one from my Catalina (slightly illegal, but ignorance is nine-tenths of the law).

flickr.com

flickr.com

I’m thankful the Internet wasn’t invented yet with all its speed of light information. I almost T-boned a police car in downtown Chicago while accidently running a red light. Luckily, it managed to avoid me.

The lack of interstate communication meant my perfect storm of misdemeanors and felonies did not get noticed.

A dumb traffic light was on the side of the street instead of hanging overhead like it should. I missed its new location due to laughing and talking with Mary#2. I played the naïve farm girl confused by the big city (not much acting required) and squeezed out some crocodile tears.

It worked, or the two police officers figured they’d be tied up with paperwork for the next week trying to untangle my mess. Once again I escaped becoming a member of a chain gang.

www.doctormacro.com I don't look good in stripes!

http://www.doctormacro.com
I don’t look good in stripes!

They helpfully pointed out the next few stoplights and advised me to be very careful. No ticket, no getting thrown in the hoosegow, no lesson learned.

Lessons I should have learned: Always plunge before heading to bed, and be on the alert for traffic lights hiding in strange places.

Now it’s your turn: Did your car ever get you into trouble?

Related posts: Chapter Thirteen: Parking Perfection; Road Warrior

© Mary Norton-Miller and 1950s Suburban Adventures, 2012 forward. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Mary Norton-Miller and 1950s Suburban Adventures with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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