1965 Rambler

The year was 1967. It was time to settledown. I got married to Brokerbelle. As in the case of many young marrieds money was scarce. Further Brokerbelle had a car payment, and I did not. So I sold my beautiful Triumph Spitfire and assumed the payments on the Rambler.

But wait! That is not hardly fair. You see I was not working. Not much anyway. I was bound for graduate school and the heady income of a college professor. More about that in a future blog. So I did not assume any payments really. Brokerbelle had a job and she kept working.

Meanwhile I was at the top of my class with majors in Greek and History and a minor in religion. You can imagine how attractive I was to employers. "Let's see you can read ancient Greek, no ancient Greek around here."

For the next two years this Greek major went to graduate school where he got another useless degree-a masters in Medieval History and a minor in Latin. Wow! I bet my job prospects would improve now.

Brokerbelle was a highly skilled secretary (a timed typing test of 110 words per minute and short hand over 100 words per minute). She was so good that one time at the University of Texas a professor stated that he did not believe anyone was that good and demanded to see the tests.) She was good at her job. Really good. I went to school and supplemented our modest income by making filings with the State of Louisiana, working in service stations, and inspecting fire hydrants for the local water company (which by the way was a pretty good job).

So suffice it to say, I assumed no payments, Brokerbelle made the payments and put food on the table and I supplemented as best I could-which upon reflection was none too good.

I had become a victim of reality. I was now a married man and living upon my wife's modest resources .

So Rambler it was, and a brown rambler at that. The Rambler was a good car and provided the transportation we needed. It was not a "car from hell"--but plain, serviceable and it got us places.

Now, I could fall in love with Brokerbelle; however I was never able to fall in love with Ramblers.

Since that time I find that some people do love Ramblers and that there are even webpages devoted to them.

Well we are all different, but a webpage for Ramblers is one of the mysteries of life.

The automotive road ahead was not to be a pleasant one. Ahead of me would be another Rambler and the car from Hell, the accursed Maverick. So I was to enter an Automotive Purgatorio where by my muse, Henry Ford, would lead me a spiralling descent into automotive nightmares reminiscent of the paintings of Heironimus Bosch. Through this upcoming period I would be a college professor for two years (the AAUP liberal gowns did not fit HarleyDad very well) and then the law school experience, flavored with tons of poverty and accompanied by the Maverick (the car from hell) which I wore like the albatross worn by the Ancient Mariner.

HarleyDad and Brokerbelle would eventually be saved from this automotive Purgatorio by the humble Corolla.

HarleyDad (showing a sudden attack of erudition, which hopefully will quickly pass.)