Alva Review-Courier -

Monday in the office, our resident shorty Desiree complained about driving the newspaper’s big pickup. She can’t successfully move the seat far enough forward. It’s hard to see over the steering wheel, and she can barely touch the accelerator with her toes. This becomes fatiguing since the cruise control doesn’t work. Our smaller pickup was in the shop getting a flat tire replaced. It has all the comfort features the bigger one doesn’t.

Desiree is maybe two inches shorter than me, and her complaints reminded me of an experience early in my marriage to Lynn. During the two years we dated and early in our marriage, Lynn drove a nice new black Chevy Corvair. After we married, we shared the car and I sometimes had to drive it.

I never drove anything but an automatic so he had to teach me how to operate the clutch and the stick shift together. Eventually I was able to stop on a hill and get going again without killing the engine.

Just as I got that mastered, I learned Lynn still had his first car, a 1937 Plymouth. I think his sister had been driving it, but she married that summer and the car came back to us.

The Plymouth spent time in the shop getting the rusted top replaced, but it needed a paint job we couldn’t afford. Lynn was making a princely $400 a month as news director at KTTR, the radio station owned by his dad. I was raking in $1.25 an hour, minimum wage, at a printing company. My check bought our groceries each week with a little left over. His check covered everything else.

Lynn worked out a three-way deal with his dad, the man painting the car and us. We paid part of the painting job while the rest was traded for radio advertising. What did his dad get for providing those ads? A KTTR logo on the two doors of the Plymouth!

After it was all done, the Plymouth became my car to drive. It was bright cherry red with those black and white oval radio station logos on each side – a real eye catcher. I hated all the attention it drew. I had begun taking classes at the local engineering college in Rolla, electrical engineering. I’m an introvert. Can you imagine my driving up in a bright red old car adorned with radio logos while students stared? This is probably why I dislike owning a red car to this day.

The Plymouth was generally reliable but not comfortable. The seat did not move to put my 5 ft. 2 in. body close to the controls so I kept a bed pillow behind me in the seat. I saw as much through the steering wheel as over it. Seeing through the back window to pull out of parking required practically standing in the seat.

I could reach the accelerator only with my toes. It was a stick shift. I could only push the clutch in by grabbing the steering wheel and pulling myself forward in the seat. Thus braced, I could push in the clutch, holding my position with one hand and shifting with the other. Timing had to be perfect.

The 1937 Plymouth had one very unusual feature. The front window could be cranked open for ventilation. That was really nice on hot days since no vehicles were air conditioned back in 1963 (expect for a few after-market window units).

It was nice having a second car, even though it was the old Plymouth. I could buy groceries without waiting for Lynn to get home. He didn’t have to take me to work and pick me up later.

A lot of marriage is about cooperation and compromise and having each other’s back. The Plymouth played a part in one early instance in our marriage.

One summer Saturday, Lynn was photographing a wedding in St. James, Missouri, about a half hour drive from where we lived in Rolla. I was doing chores around the house when he called. He was running low on film for his camera. Obviously this was well before digital cameras. Lynn needed me to bring him more film.

I assessed the situation. I would need to change into something more wedding worthy than shorts, locate the film and then drive the Plymouth on the interstate. I’d never driven that car out of town. Would it make it?

Lynn said he couldn’t think of anyone else who would be available that Saturday. I would have to do it. He said the car should make it, but the lights were unreliable. Sometimes they worked, and sometimes they didn’t. So I’d have to make it back before dark.

I changed clothes, grabbed rolls of film from the refrigerator, and headed out. At least the Plymouth had enough gas. I merged onto the interstate at the edge of town, windows open for a breeze. The Plymouth picked up speed but topped out at 45 mph. Signs along the highway told me that was the minimum speed for the interstate. I guess they didn’t want slowpokes impeding the traffic flow. I could push the accelerator all the way to the floor, but that car refused to go over 45.

It seemed like forever getting to St. James. I know it took well over 30 minutes. I kept worrying I would be stopped by the highway patrol for driving too slow. Meanwhile, Lynn was at the wedding wondering if I’d arrive before he ran out of film. I did make it to the wedding in time, handed off the film and returned before dark.

I continued to drive the Plymouth several more months, but we eventually upgraded to a Volkswagen. That car was better on the interstate, unless you were driving up a hill. Then it acted a lot like the Plymouth.