The Hard Stuff

My first car was a tan Ford Escort with decidedly un-cool brown and white "racing stripes". I'd wanted the car my brother had and I'd driven it my Sophomore year, but he'd taken off to college, so I was stuck without a car. HIS car was a '62 powder blue VW Bug with a black leather bra.  Jerk.

My car had FM stereo, no tape deck and that sucked because I had lots of tapes. I vowed to remedy that as soon as I could.

The first thing I did (after I learned to drive the stick) was pick up my friend and drive to the one gas station in my neighborhood that would sell a 17 year old cigarettes. My teen years were mostly spent figuring out ways to mortify my parents. Smoking had the simultaneous quality of mortification as well as a lovely nicotine high, so it was a no-brainer that I smoked.

After putting gas in my car and buying my smokes, the car wouldn't start. I tried and tried, feeling more and more foolish as the seconds went by. Finally, my friend asked me if I'd named the car yet. No, I told her, I haven't.


Well apparently that was the problem, because when I  turned the car on to start it, I vowed to name it whatever came on the radio. The song being played was the Police's Roxanne. I dubbed the tan little go-cart Roxanne, and, like magic, she started right up.

My dad hadn't consulted me about the purchase of Roxanne, probably because he knew I'd want a Saab or a VW Cabriolet. When he brought it home, he informed me that my paychecks would go toward the car payment and the insurance. He would provide me with gas. It sounded like a stellar deal to me. And it was.

I had good grades so my insurance payment was low; the car had been cheap so my payment to him was a mere $103 a month to be free and independent. And free of the loaner car I'd been forced to drive the year before, derisively known as The Boat.

Our boat was sort of a sickly metallic poo color with a dark chocolate brown top. You could run over a small building and it was barely bounce the shocks. A boat.

Roxanne was an improvement not only in size, but it had FM stereo.

I moved out a year later at 18 and made a big show of asking for all of my tax information, bills I owed and other information so that I could properly leave childhood behind and be An Adult. I even took over the car loan myself.

My father informed me that Adults pay for their own gas. I accepted this show of "pettiness" by saying something dignified and grown up, probably something like, "Oh yeah, well I don't need you or your stupid gas because you suck!"

I moved into my one bedroom in Sugarhouse and proceeded to learn what it was like to be on my own. The first night I slept alone I awoke with every noise, convinced I would be attacked at any moment by the bogey man who had surely followed me from my closet at home.

I worked three jobs; one full time, two part time on the weekends. Roxanne and I were getting along smashingly well except the radio went out. THIS....was a problem. Music I had to have.

Tail between my legs, I went to my parents and asked my dad for a loan to buy a car stereo. He said "no".

I was  chagrined and upset--and depressed, but I knew that I had enough money in the bank to get a JVC stereo, installed that very day. I went to Radio Shack, and did the deed. Four-hundred and thirty nine dollars later I was blasting my music with the windows rolled down and singing at the top of my lungs. I brought my car complete with new purchase home to mom and dad. See? I don't need you! They were happy for me and even took a ride with me in my car. I made sure to play music they liked even. Bridging the gap.

 It felt so good.

Until...

A week later I had no food.

Tail between my legs once again, I drove to my parents and--knowing they would never let their youngest and favorite child starve, showed up, asking for money.

They asked me to stay for dinner...and while I appreciated the sentiment...I needed food! I figure I'd soften them up a bit by eating with them, agreeing with most of what they said for a change and expressing my gratitude (which, by this time, I had copious amounts of after living alone--there IS no milk fairy, FYI) and then hit them up again for a grocery visit.

My dad asked me to drive. I was so relieved.

We got to my car but before I could start the car he sat in the front seat and said, "Hold on a minute; I want to show you something."

He pointed to my stereo, lights ablaze, and said, very gently, "That is your groceries."

I didn't get it. Then I did. My face flushed and I found myself in tears--something my dad could never withstand, and I sniffed and cried and told him I had no food...and he reminded me that he and mom did have food, and if I came over for breakfast, lunch and dinner (and lectures) for the next week, I would be welcome. Then he said, "Julie, this is the hard stuff. The choices you make determine who you are. Who you are determines everything."

My dad taught me so much, but the biggest and grandest thing he taught me was how to have integrity with money, and incidentally, with myself.

I went to his house every day and ate. Every day I listened to their lectures disguised as helpful advice for their growing daughter, I would give anything--anything, if I had listened to half of what they had told me.

I would give anything if I could hear them now. I have a feeling they'd have things to say that would help me as much today as they did back then.

Chowder