Independence

by Terri McFadden

She was two-tone. Deep forest green body, soft cream color top. A year older than me, she was a gift for my 16^th birthday. My dad bought her at auction, beat up and in great need of attention. My brother worked on her for a year, fixing the engine, stripping old paint and repainting.

A Jeep. A best friend. Independence. I wouldn’t have to ask to drive the Buick LeSabre or the yellow LTD – monsters both. I had my own wheels. First, however, I had to learn to drive a stick. And stick it was. A long metal pole, with a worn black knob was the stick-shift, with a smaller stick to engage the four-wheel drive. The day after my birthday, with Dad behind the wheel, we drove up the hill to the big parking lot at the junior high school. Dad stopped the Jeep and pulled the hand-brake with a screech. He jumped out and I took his place. We slammed the tinny doors in unison. He gave me the lesson. “Left pedal: Clutch, Middle Pedal: Brake, Right Pedal: Gas. Push in the clutch, give a little gas, release clutch. Go.” I…went….jerked forward. Engine died. “Hell’s Fire Terri! Let it out slow.” It took some time, but I learned and then did I go!

Her top speed on the highway, was 45 mph. I only took her that fast once and her scream of protest still rings in my ears. On the few times we ventured on the main roads, to go roller skating in Latrobe, or to the teen “night club” to dance, I kept her to a sedate 40. Even VW Beetle’s zoomed past us. She also wasn’t happy in a rain storm. She had just one windshield wiper, operated by hand by the driver – or a willing passenger leaning over – swish, swish. Her heater let out occasional little wisps of heat on a cold day – just for the driver’s feet.

However, the highway wasn’t her home and winter wasn’t her favorite time of year. Her place was the mountains surrounding our little town, muddy spring through bright fall. Dirt roads and off-road treks with my girlfriends. That’s where my Jeep was most at home. On a Friday night I’d pick up some of my friends. Ginny, Nettie, Debbie, and Sharon would cram into the bare metal interior, the minimum padding in the rear made the front passenger seat coveted. Off we’d go.

Summer nights we’d take sleeping bags and a little food and we’d head up to the Ridge or Laurel Mountain, or to our farm ten miles out of town. We go off-road or let a dirt road see where it would lead us. One memorable night we drove through a grove of saplings and couldn’t get out. Forward, back, forward, back, forward back, I tried my best to ram my way through the tiny forest. Finally the poor Jeep gave out entirely and we had a very long walk back to town. Next day Dad and I made our way up the mountain to where the Jeep waited patiently. He took one look at the engine and said I’d broken the fan belt. Easily fixed. I was so relieved; I feared I’d killed my friend. My father was so nice about it too. He understood. Love of vehicles and the independence they offered was something we shared.

My senior year is a series of snap-shots in my mind. Driving to school and picking up my best friend Janice on the way – no more walking to the bus, shared with screaming kids two or three years younger. Driving around town with my dog, Patrick, a 150-pound Irish wolfhound sitting on the back seat. What a showoff – and I don’t mean Patrick!

There were scary times as well. Once I negotiated a hair-pin turn and started up a steep hill. With only a little power, Jeep slipped backwards, down the hill. We drifted across the road, toward another steep hill. I thought we were doomed. At the last minute the brakes engaged and we rested, one wheel over the edge.

It was a short-lived love affair. I headed for college and freshmen weren’t allowed cars. My Jeep stayed safely at home. During Christmas break I again drove her around, visiting friends, reliving memories. In June I returned home again. The Jeep was not in sight. I asked my father where she was parked. He sold her, he said. Had he sold my horse, Molly or Patrick, I couldn’t have been more upset. (But my mother would have saved them!) Dad had had a good offer, he said. No one was around to drive her, he said. Gina didn’t have her license yet, he said. I said nothing.

The Jeep gave me a lot in a year and half. I let her go, but I kept her memory. She meant freedom. In the decades since, no machine has had that impact on me. The means to choose, to go where and when you want. Independence. Never under estimate its value.