That same Camaro was parked nearby when we had the family Christmas party at the clubhouse on Village Lane, next to the townhouse where my husband and I lived. That night was one of the coldest on record. As we carried food and dishes back and forth between the Mobley kitchen and the clubhouse, icicles formed on our eyelashes (almost). I can still feel the biting wind.
There is another bit of trivia about my Camaro which has nothing to do with Christmas. When I test drove it before making the purchase, I could barely reach the gas pedal and brake. The salesman told me, no problem, the mechanic could move the seat forward. So some new holes were bored and the seat was moved closer to the steering wheel. The Camaro would become my favorite car, which also has nothing to do with Christmas.
Like all cars, my near-and-dear Camaro eventually required too much attention, so we sold it (more like gave it away) to a young man who intended to restore it. Whether or not the restoration actually took place, I will never know, but in the New Year of 1986, I was driving a white Toyota Cressida which quickly became my new favorite car. It fit me perfectly. Not only could I reach the pedals, the seats were upholstered in the plushest dark burgundy velvety fabric and the most comfortable of any car between then and now. With the acquisition of a Cressida, I also graduated from an eight-track tape player to a newfangled cassette player.
I had not even driven it to one Long family Christmas party before a tipsy teenager crashed into me on I-40 in Greensboro, as I was coming back from John and Lucy's cookout on July 4th. That was the time my husband attended his family's cookout and I attended my family's. To further explain how this happened, I can only say it was early in our marriage, before we learned the value of compromise and negotiation.
A tow truck carried my Cressida to the garage where the mechanics straightened out the front end and repaired the engine, but sometime after that, it seemed to be dying a slow death, so we took it to some mechanics in Thomasville who dismantled the motor down to the block, then told us it was too far gone; beyond repair. They could not put it back together again.
We asked my brother Clarence for a second opinion, because no contraption, mechanical or otherwise, has ever outdone him. In a split second he said he could fix it, so he and my beloved went to the garage where they loaded boxes of nuts and bolts and assorted metal pieces into the trunk. Then they towed it to Clarence's house in Colfax where he tinkered with it after work over a period of time, in jigsaw puzzle fashion.
When he had finished reassembling the motor, my husband and I were present for the initial turning of the key. Clarence put the key in the ignition and it started up just like that, running, as Daddy would have said, "like a sewing machine." My husband and I just looked at each other and shook our heads, grinning. This has nothing to do with Christmas either; it's just a fun story to tell.
I drove the Cressida through several Christmases after that, eventually giving it up to a silver Mazda Millenia which never became my favorite car, even though I adored the sun roof that I opened every fair-weather day while speeding home from work on I-64. With the Mazda, I also catapulted to the updated technology of a dual cassette tape/CD player.
In spite of the Millenia's name, longevity was not its strong point, and by Christmas 2007, I had transitioned to a sedated black Buick which remains my mode of transportation to this day. It has a sun roof that opens only for light (I have also heard it called a moon roof) but the upside is that I can load six CDs at once, enough for continuous music throughout the duration of any trip I am likely to take.
I have not mentioned the first car I ever owned and with good reason. I would like to forget the Ford Capri. Through no fault of my own, it only survived a couple of Christmases. My brothers, the Chevy guys, told me not to buy a Ford, but in my determined youth, I could not see past the Capri's cuteness and chose not to heed their advice. As it turned out, my brothers were exactly right. Shortly after I drove it off the showroom floor, the infamous Capri came apart at the seams, literally. The seats were as ragged as Raggedy Ann and the motor likewise.
This Christmas, the sleepy Buick still reigns. It continues to serve me well going back and forth to the grocery store and the little brick church at the top of a hill. The driver-side door handle has not fallen off again since I had it repaired. Still, in spite of its reliability, I have this vision of cruising in a red convertible through the sunset of my life, but for personal reasons, that has about as much chance of happening as Santa balancing his sleigh on the steep pointy roof of my house.
In closing, I will say that reliving my past Christmases through the cars I drove has been mighty fun, and speaking of fun, the most fun car I ever drove was one I did not own. It was Clarence's old 1963 dark blue Corvair with a manual transmission. I loved changing gears. I particularly enjoyed testing my skill at a stoplight on a hill, where I had to press the gas pedal and release the clutch in finite precision, lest I roll into the car behind me. For many months I zipped around Greensboro and to my job at Western Electric in the little Corvair.
No matter the cars I drove or rode in, my Long journey through many Christmases has been quite a ride. The fondest memories would never have happened if not for my great big family. This year, I see the evidence of inevitable changes racing toward me a hundred miles an hour, breaking the speed limit. Nothing can stop the passage of time, but I thank God for the sweetest treasures of past celebrations, the ones that are stashed away for safekeeping, along with a few simple dreams.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Copyright © 2022 by Mary Frances