When it comes to cars, nothing will ever top Blooey

I was talking last week with my son, the Chrysler rep, about cars we have owned over the years. He makes more money than I do and he has expensive tastes, so most of his cars have been nice ones.

Mine, on the other hand, have all been entrants in one long parade of rolling wrecks; the kindest thing you could say about any of them to date is that none have killed me.

The Van of Death, which finally gave up the ghost last week, was just the most recent in a line of unsafe, under-insured, rusted out heaps that have transported me from Point A to Point B since my 16th birthday. But driving wrecks has never bothered me. I’m not a “car guy” and never have been. I don’t define myself by what I drive and have never felt the need to compensate for anything, even during my mid-life crisis years.

Still, I am an American boy and we’re genetically predisposed to love our cars. So there have been a few over the years to which I grew attached. A 1965 Beetle with a top speed of 45 mph was one. An old Galaxy 500 — previously owned by my grandmother — was another.

But my all-time favorite was Blooey, the 25-year-old Volvo sedan I drove back when my kids still attended elementary school. I purchased Blooey (named for its color, by my daughter) from a guy’s front yard. She cost $68.22, all the cash I had on me at that moment. The car was worth more than that, but it had belonged to the guy’s daughter, long since moved away to school. He just wanted it out of his driveway.

I drove Blooey for four years — that worked out to monthly payments of $1.42. Factor in the fact I rarely carried viable insurance or purchased up-to-date license plates in those days and I was practically driving for free. Occasionally, a cop would notice the expired plates and I’d be forced to pay a fine and “go legal” for a few months before returning to business as usual. Even so, Blooey was a cheap ride.

Dinner trays liberated from one of my old man’s restaurants covered most of the rust holes in the floor, the ones big enough for my kids to fall through at any rate. Aubreii and Jordan would occasionally slide the trays aside to watch the freeway speeding by beneath their feet. My kids were thrill seekers.

I probably could have fixed the floor-holes permanently, but they came in handy at least once. It was during a fierce, summer squall. While newer, safer cars bobbed helplessly in a huge puddle that had formed in a dip in Alpine Avenue, Blooey immediately sank to the bottom where her wheels found purchase and drove us right out again.

Sure, toward the end of Blooey’s long and storied life it took about half a block to bring her to a full stop and she was leaking oil so bad I purchased 10w30 by the gallon, but still, she was a great ride.

A car, I think, is only as good as the adventures you have while driving it, only as good as the places it takes you.

At that, Blooey excelled.