Collecting cars is not a labor for the faint of heart.  It is hard and painful at times.  It is only meant for those people who have a true passion for the history and stories behind each car. 

This is a new part of my life.  I am one of those faint of heart people.  I do not foster a love of American engineering that many others carry.  But, alas, I married a man who does.  His love of history and people and the things they build has carried over into every facet of his life.  It is his story, made of others’ stories.

When I met my husband, he had a 1982 Mercedes Benz and a 1960 International Scout in his driveway - neither of which could run.  In fact, he had no working vehicles at all!  But his drive and instinct, through the years, allowed him to expand and the benefits of life grew.  My husband was forced to sell both those cars to good friends-one of which is a mechanic.  So all is not lost!

Once we sold the two “junkers” as I so ignorantly referred to them, I believed that we had turned a page in our lives.  No longer the car farmers on our block, I hoped that we would be able to set our sights on cars and trucks that would prove to be safe, reliable and hold their value.  (I’m such a pragmatist.)  But I was wrong.  It wasn’t two months after we sold the Benz and the Scout that my husband exclaimed one day that he had acquired another car: a 1969 Corvair. 

I, of course, knew nothing of the history of the Corvair - save the phrase “Unsafe at any Speed”.  Before I could even see the car, I was a doubter, with Ralph Nader sneering in my ear.  In an effort to help win me over, my husband helped ease me into the car; I was pregnant with our first daughter at the time.  “Easing” into any car was difficult enough, but a Corvair was a different story.  My husband propped pillows up behind my back and promised not to drive too fast over the bumps.  I must admit, it was fun.  But I don’t think the hook caught me quite like my husband.  I enjoyed watching him tell car enthusiasts that would stop to share their stories with him.  I had no idea how many people owned a Corvair for their first car.  My husband was always so pleased with himself at those times.  Proud is a better word for it. 

Which is why I don’t know why I was so surprised when he told me about the next car he was preparing to buy, a 1950 De Soto.  Now, if I didn’t know anything about the Corvair, you can imagine how much I knew about the De Soto!  But this time, rather than ask a whole slew of questions about the practicality of his new purchase, I simply smiled and said, “Honey, if it makes you happy, then it should be yours.”  And it did. 

The shocking part of the De Soto, though, was how happy it made me!  By now my daughter was one year old.  The Corvair, for obvious reasons, was unsuitable as a “family vehicle”.  But the De Soto, with its 1950’s charm, character and suaveness was impressive in its focus on family.  Everything about it was made for the family.  My husband picked it up at a used car lot on his way to a job.  The salesman said it had been on the lot for three hours.  He had gotten it in a trade from a man whose parents had recently passed.  The man found it in their garage, presumably where it had stayed for decades!  My husband claimed there was no time to waste, swooped down on the De Soto and called it his own.  What a find! 

We live in New Mexico, where tradition and history are teeming all around.  It seems natural that such a rare find as this De Soto would come equipped with a hood ornament in the shape of a conquistador that actually lights up!  It reminds me of the low-riding vatos in our neighboring towns, for whom I am so fond. If it were possible to put six tons of steel on hydraulics, I would try!  Maybe even some neon under the chassis, too. 

The only changes my husband has made to the De Soto was to install seatbelts in the rear seat so we could put my daughters car seat in the car!  On Sundays we go downtown for cruises.  We stop at the plaza after many circles, trying to find the best parking spot (most visible) right in front of the old Woolworth’s where they sell the best Frito Pies in the world.  We go get our food and come back to the car, where at least one person is waiting to talk to my husband about the car.  Again, I get to watch the pride bubble in my husband.

But traditions don’t pay the bills, and we are starting to think about whether or not it’s wise to keep cars like this around, when we could be paying for other things.  It’s a difficult decision to make.  My daughter longingly looks at the De Soto, which she calls the “Downtown car”.  Both of us cringe a little to think about losing so much of our own history at the same time!  “I think it’s time,” he said to me, a few weeks ago. 

“Do we have to get rid of them both?” I asked.

“My friend is going to sell me his Cadillac,” he responded.

And so it begins again.

By Sara Headley

Sara Headley is a freelance writer living in Santa Fe, NM.  A former teacher, she now stays at home with her three children.  Sara and her husband own and operate an electrical contracting business, when they’re not cruising downtown.