My mother took this picture of eighth-grade me and my first-grade brother at our front driveway in Haverford, Pennsylvania. To her it was a picture of her son and daughter. To me it is a picture of our 1967 Dodge Dart. Like when he bought the Studebaker, my father went through the options book with the dealer and had them make exactly what he wanted. Then we waited six weeks for the bespoke car to be built. So it was every bit as much of a dog as his first try at this special order stuff.

Rubber mats again instead of carpets, 6-cylinder engine, no decorative trim. No wheel covers or whitewall tires. He did allow it to have a radio (AM only, no tape player) automatic transmission and air conditioner. (To be fair my father was practical, not stingy. Pretty served no purpose. AC and heat did). Color was gold. When it came time to get rid of it, fifteen or so years later, he called me up and asked me if I wanted it. Though I usually took the family cast-off cars, in this case I said “no!”