Member-only story
On Eagle’s Wings
The sounds were unmistakable; full size pickup trucks roaring through the streets, slightly off balance as they gunned the engines and…
The sounds were unmistakable; full size pickup trucks roaring through the streets, slightly off balance as they gunned the engines and burned rubber. Mostly Ford and Chevy and Dodge, with a few GMC models here and there. Not a single Toyota or other foreign made vehicle in the bunch, and this was a part of their message.
Americans love their cars. Your car is a part of your identity in most parts of our country. As a little girl I strove to compete with the boys in being able to recognize and identify as many cars as possible. At first it was by the way they looked; then I graduated into knowing what was coming down the street by the sound of the engine. Chevy Bel Air, Chrysler Imperial, Cadillac Coup De Ville, and more became a part of my repertoire. Without a father or other male role model in my life, I needed to work overtime to keep up. It was worth my time and effort and I joined the millions of Americans who love cars and find meaning and identity in them.
At age sixteen I had my driver’s license and the first in what would become a string of used cars for the next several years. Back then we only drove American made vehicles. Mine included a ’56 Chevy Bel Air, a ’62 Ford Fairlane 500, and my favorite, a ’66 Ford Mustang…
