At five years old, I knew when Dad was home, well before he boomed his hello up the stairs. When his 69 Cougar convertible turned the far corner, you could hear the cheesy one-note sambas on the aftermarket stereo vying to be heard over the burble of the 351 Windsor V8.
My father had just moved to suburban DC on his way to fame, starting with a stint as a speechwriter in the Nixon White House.
https://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/28/us/28safire.html
But he did not become famous for his speed in the quarter mile. As he drove, he would get lost in thought and gradually slow down until my mother goaded him to hurry up for heaven’s sake, we’re trying to get somewhere.
Eventually when we traveled as a family she drove us in her car, a Pontiac Bonneville.
https://www.oldride.com/carphotos//213918527.html?o=901545485681&sort=
This “Wide Track” four door boat needed its 428 engine simply to make it around town. With its maroon exterior, maroon velveteen “Morrokide” bench seating and “generous swaths of imitation Carpathian elm,” it resembled a rolling bordello. At the time we just thought of it as a comfy ride.
After a time, the Cougar was repainted to hide its battle scars. It emerged a more noticeable shade of yellow, somewhere between lemonade and banana. It’s strange how the striking color doesn’t look garish to me, since it’s the only color I’ve ever known it to be.
By 1980, when I came of driving age, my mother wisely insisted I drive something else. The Cougar lacked airbags, 3 points seat belts, and a passenger side mirror. It could go 100 mph, but when it turned a corner at any speed, you could feel your prehensile tail reaching out for a street sign.
One cousin got a ride to a protest march outside the White House before the car was parked at the Executive Office Building next door.
Another cousin got a call one day telling him to look out his window, because the classic 25 year old convertible he once complimented was being rolled off a flatbed onto his Los Angeles driveway.
I think my cousin Andy felt a little guilty that he ended up with the car instead of me, though heaven knows I wouldn’t have had a use for it in NYC. He always told me that if I wanted it, it was mine. He replaced the wiring harness, kept it garaged and drove it from time to time on sunny days.
25 years later, when the car was 50 years old, I made that call.
To be continued…
More pics to come.
Specs: 1969 351 Windsor 2v convertible, p/w, p/s, a/c, yellow exterior, black interior, numbers matching, 97K miles, engine never rebuilt.
) Each person finds one new frightening thing though: he noticed that the seat is no longer attached to the floor panel.