The Pontiac has been dead to me since I traded my 1967 LeMans for a 1973 Super Beetle. Its death was slow, painful and expensive.
I bought this beautiful car used in 1970, on looks alone. Purple (Plum Wild, the dealer called it) with a white vinyl top, white seats, faux wood dashboard, automatic, air conditioning, radio.
The AC went first although I wasn't aware of that for months, since it was fall when I made the deal. In the spring, there was no cool air even though the dealer had charged the unit before I took possession. So I had it charged again but the freon leaked out about as fast as the mechanic put it in. It was too expensive to have it fixed so I did without.
Then the transmission had to be replaced. Pricey repair for a beginning teacher.
The radio had serious static problems. When I bent the antenna off in an adventure with a railroad crossing gate, I learned the antenna was the problem all along. Cheap fix. That's one!
The windshield cleaner quit working. I'm not talking about the fluid, I'm talking about the system.
I left a tank of gasoline in a friend's driveway when the fuel pump went out.
Dimmer switch went out one dark night when a friend and I were off exploring on a road leading to a ferry on the Mississippi River. No lights!
New alternator. Check.
Starter replaced. Check.
Radiator hoses replaced. Check.
Fan clutch came unclutched. Check.
The seal went out on the rear axle. Why not?
The paint may have started to go or the vinyl top may have been coming unglued. I wouldn't have put it past it.
I'm sure my brother-in-law fixed a bunch of other things, but he's not handy to rattle them off to me. Thirty-five years later, I bet he remembers every repair, though.
The worst, the absolute worst thing about the car was I never knew if it would start. There was that flutter of anxiety every morning when I came out of my apartment to drive to work. Will it start? And the feeling resurfaced every afternoon when I left school. Will I be able to get home? I learned how to keep the carburetor gate open with a stick while I jumped in the car and turned the key. I got to be on friendly terms with the very decent fellow at the Phillips 66 station on Boonslick Road in St. Charles, Mo. The guys at the P66 in Atlantic, Iowa, finally suggested I park the car in their garage overnight during the winter I lived in their town. I had a mile to walk every morning and every evening to get to and from the garage but that was a small price to pay.
That car was a piece of junk. Getting rid of it became a high priority after I got married.
I remember watching the VW dealer driving the LeMans away after we picked up our new Super Beetle. He was lurching down the road. Penny for his thoughts. "This car is a piece of junk."
I bought this beautiful car used in 1970, on looks alone. Purple (Plum Wild, the dealer called it) with a white vinyl top, white seats, faux wood dashboard, automatic, air conditioning, radio.
The AC went first although I wasn't aware of that for months, since it was fall when I made the deal. In the spring, there was no cool air even though the dealer had charged the unit before I took possession. So I had it charged again but the freon leaked out about as fast as the mechanic put it in. It was too expensive to have it fixed so I did without.
Then the transmission had to be replaced. Pricey repair for a beginning teacher.
The radio had serious static problems. When I bent the antenna off in an adventure with a railroad crossing gate, I learned the antenna was the problem all along. Cheap fix. That's one!
The windshield cleaner quit working. I'm not talking about the fluid, I'm talking about the system.
I left a tank of gasoline in a friend's driveway when the fuel pump went out.
Dimmer switch went out one dark night when a friend and I were off exploring on a road leading to a ferry on the Mississippi River. No lights!
New alternator. Check.
Starter replaced. Check.
Radiator hoses replaced. Check.
Fan clutch came unclutched. Check.
The seal went out on the rear axle. Why not?
The paint may have started to go or the vinyl top may have been coming unglued. I wouldn't have put it past it.
I'm sure my brother-in-law fixed a bunch of other things, but he's not handy to rattle them off to me. Thirty-five years later, I bet he remembers every repair, though.
The worst, the absolute worst thing about the car was I never knew if it would start. There was that flutter of anxiety every morning when I came out of my apartment to drive to work. Will it start? And the feeling resurfaced every afternoon when I left school. Will I be able to get home? I learned how to keep the carburetor gate open with a stick while I jumped in the car and turned the key. I got to be on friendly terms with the very decent fellow at the Phillips 66 station on Boonslick Road in St. Charles, Mo. The guys at the P66 in Atlantic, Iowa, finally suggested I park the car in their garage overnight during the winter I lived in their town. I had a mile to walk every morning and every evening to get to and from the garage but that was a small price to pay.
That car was a piece of junk. Getting rid of it became a high priority after I got married.
I remember watching the VW dealer driving the LeMans away after we picked up our new Super Beetle. He was lurching down the road. Penny for his thoughts. "This car is a piece of junk."