“Stang”: A 1967 Mustang Memoir

The “Stang”: A 1967 Mustang Memoir

The year was 1967. I was born near Detroit, Michigan, designed by American ingenuity and forged from hardened Detroit steel. My sleek, muscular lines turned heads. Under my hood were eight cylinders and 289 cubic inches of fuel-and-air capacity that produced 225 horsepower. All those horses could propel me to speeds over 120 mph. They called me a Mustang pony, but if you ask me, I was pure thoroughbred.

My bold black paint shone brilliantly under the bright Michigan sun. I could feel my stunning black paint absorb the sun’s rays, radiating energy throughout my entire chassis.

I was a third-generation Mustang, fresh off the assembly line in Dearborn, Michigan. The first production models had come off the line on April 17, 1964.

I was a badass breed, but with a few creature-comfort modifications to make me special and my ride easy. First off, I had an automatic transmission. Not quite as sporty as a stick shift, but much better for cruising. The designers also gave me a front bench seat. Yeah, not as cool as bucket seats, but the bench had an advantage on the romance front, more on that later. I had power disc brakes to help slow me from my 100 mph gallops. To top it off, my shoes had beautiful wide white sidewalls. And oh, I almost forgot the best part, I had a convertible top! Yes, I was a sight to behold coming off that assembly line.

I left the great city of Detroit on a westbound Northern Pacific train, bound for a Ford dealership in Seattle, Washington. The three-day train ride was beautiful, crossing tall, snow-capped mountains and finally arriving in the Emerald City of Seattle. I had never seen so much green. I still remember the Space Needle standing tall against the brilliant blue Seattle sky. “The bluest skies I’ve ever seen,” just like the song. This was going to be a fantastic city to cruise around and let all 225 horses stretch their legs around the lakes and over the steep hills.

I was the feature car at the Bill Pierre Ford dealership in Seattle. I was driven up onto the huge turntable inside the showroom. I was strutting my stuff, round and round on the showroom turntable in the shadow of the Space Needle. I felt so proud. I was the talk of the town.

Obviously, I didn’t last long. Two days later, a guy in his early 30s named Steve bought me. He paid full sticker price, $3,345, out the door. As it turned out, Big Steve was not a good owner and an even worse driver. Big Steve liked to burn out from red lights and did his best to power drift, but never quite got it down, running up on numerous curbs. Both activities were very hard on me, and they took their toll. Plus, he never put the top down, even on those rare sunny Seattle days. And a car wash was about as frequent as a blue moon. Big Steve had me for about seven years, but he lost control of me in a tight turn one rainy fall night on Highway 99 north of Seattle. I wound up in a body shop in North Seattle. Steve blew a generous 1.8 on the breathalyzer. He was not going to need a car for quite a while.

I was beat up and sitting in a repair shop in some place called Lake City. My motor, brakes, and electrical were fine, but my frame was bent, windshield cracked, and my hood was popped up a good six inches. Steve mentioned something about “totaled” and “junkyard.” Two words no car ever wants to hear in the same sentence. I suddenly got very nervous about what might happen next. Sure enough, the insurance company deemed me totaled. But somehow, I escaped the notorious drive of shame to the junkyard and wound up in the parking lot of a local Catholic high school.

The tow truck dumped me in the high school parking lot right next to the gym. Later that day, a photographer came out to take pictures of me for the auction the next day. I hoped he got my one good side. As the photographer walked away, I heard him say to no one in particular, “Who would buy this piece of shit?” Just to think, a few years ago, I was the Black Stallion ruling the roads. How the mighty have fallen.

The live auction at the high school was the next night, and somehow, I was the last featured item. The school was hoping for big bucks from me and maybe even an auction bidding war. Sadly, that didn’t happen. There was only one offer, one bidder. My new owner was a 40-something carpet salesman. He was balding and had a gut. He walked up to me with a coffee in one hand and a donut in the other. As he walked around the car, I got a better look at him. He had a strong jaw and was actually fairly muscular. He had deep, intense brown eyes, hmm. He chomped down the last of his donut, gulped his coffee, and climbed into his new ride. Looking over my instrument gauges with a smile, he reached for the key and, with two strong pumps of the gas pedal, started me up with a roar, breaking into an even bigger smile.

Sitting there as I warmed up, he reached into the pockets of his fashionable leather jacket and pulled out a pair of leather driving gloves, slipping them on like a second layer of skin. I thought this might just work out. As I mentioned, my motor was good, just my body and paint were beat to hell. All warmed up, the old guy pulled the transmission selector five spots to 1st gear and burned rubber in that parking lot, scattering a few students who were watching. As we passed the school chaplain, I swear I saw him make the Sign of the Cross, or maybe he was just giving me a quick blessing. God knows we needed it!

My new home was only about 10 minutes away. I could tell the old guy had driving game and knew how to handle a muscle car. We hit 70 mph in no time, and man, did this guy love the horn. Sure, we flipped the bird a few times, but he didn’t seem to care. I wasn’t looking pretty, but I still could gallop with the best. There was no doubt who owned the roads. I felt reborn with a new owner. Little did I know that my optimistic mood would take a sharp turn.

We were roaring down an arterial road when, abruptly, we took a sharp left onto a residential street. Man, the old guy hit the gas, and we flew up the street. He deftly took a right into the driveway, skidding to a stop. He threw me in park and then laid on that horn. Out of the house came running this sweet girl, around 16.

“Dad, where did you get this car?” she asked nervously.

The old guy broke into a big smile and said, “Honey, I bought this car for you at the high school auction. This will be your car, and you can drive it to school every day, won’t that be cool?”

“Dad! I do not want to drive a broken-down, beat-up black car to school, even if it is a Mustang,” she screamed.

I was thinking: This is going great. I’m going back to the junkyard if this keeps up.

“Oh, honey, we’ll get the dents fixed, and we’ll paint the car a nice powder-blue color,” her dad responded.

WHOA, WAIT! Me in powder blue? NO WAY is that going to happen! Powder blue, how embarrassing. I can’t be seen in a powder-blue coat. I am a proud Detroit muscle car, brushed in a beautiful, studly black coat of paint. My world was crashing down around me.

Well, obviously, I didn’t get a say in this decision. Three days later, there I was at Earl Scheib getting not one, but three coats of powder-blue paint, YUK! A week later, the paint was dry, and the sweet girl was planning our first trip to school. What could go wrong?

For starters, starting me. The simple task of starting me in the mornings became an adventure. I’m not sure who told this sweet girl that you had to pump the gas pedal and hold it down for 30 seconds before turning the ignition key, but that’s what she did. I must have had a gallon of high-octane fuel in my carburetor, no wonder I wouldn’t start. I was glad we didn’t blow up the house!

We finally made the drive to school. All her friends liked me, but the guys didn’t pay much attention. I think the powder-blue paint was a reverse magnet, repelling anyone with a Y chromosome.

Over the next couple of years, the sweet girl and I had a love-hate relationship. On sunny days, cruising around town with the top down was lovely, but that dang starting issue. We never did get on the same page, and toward the end of her senior year, as she was getting ready to graduate, she finally called it quits with me.

“Dad, I just can’t live with the mystery of starting and driving the Mustang. I’ll be starting college next year, and I need a reliable car,” she calmly told the old guy one spring morning. “Danny is turning 16, and he can have it.”

Who is this “Danny” anyway? He must be the big kid I’ve seen roaming around the house from time to time. He’s a big guy, but he sure doesn’t look too smart. If he’s turning 16, that means he doesn’t even have his driver’s license yet? Great, that’s the last thing I need: some high school, hormone-fueled jock with a brand-new license driving me around town… in a powder-blue car, no less!

So today was the day. The big kid was turning 16, and he was going to get his driver’s license. Guess who had the dubious honor of being the lucky car he’d use for the driving test? Yep, it was me, Mr. Powder-Blue Mustang. I’d heard the kid bragging to his friends that he was a lock for 100% on his driver’s test. Parallel parking was the ultimate challenge for new drivers, he thought, no problem, 4 out of 4 points on the way to 100%.

I must admit, I was pumped up for the big test. This was my first experience with a driver’s test. I wanted to do everything I could so the kid could brag about his 100%. We had an 8:45 a.m. appointment, and the old guy and the kid drove to the DMV office on a nice mid-April day. The kid was saying how cool it would be to take the driver’s test with the top down. Thankfully, the old guy put a quick end to that kind of talk with a swift look in the kid’s direction that instantly froze him. I’ve got to admit, that look scared the hell out of me too.

The driving test went well. The kid was calm and cool. You may be wondering about his score and if he had bragging rights with his buddies? He did ace the test and the parallel parking, with one little exception that cost him. The kid was so focused on lining up correctly for the parallel parking that he forgot to signal into the space. Cost him 2 points and a perfect score. The kid walked away with a 98, not bad, but no bragging rights. I was proud of the kid and felt better about his driving skills. I thought, This may just work out for a few years. Little did I know that a few years would turn out to be a few decades.

I could tell the old guy was proud of the kid. But as he slid into the passenger seat, he looked at the kid and said, “You wreck this car, and your butt is grounded for life.” But I caught a glimpse of a proud smile on the old guy’s face as he turned away.

With the Kid officially my new driver, he said it was time to get rid of my powder-blue paint. YES! The Kid worked extra jobs and caddied a lot to afford the $99 Earl Scheib paint special. And sure enough, a couple of weeks later, I made another trip to see Earl. The kid picked out a classic Candy Apple Red paint color. I have to say, I looked amazing, and we turned a lot of heads as the Kid and I drove down the street.

A few months into the freedom of a driver’s license, the big Kid was enjoying driving me to school and all around the neighborhood. I noticed one evening, as he climbed into the driver’s seat, that he seemed nervous. His two pumps of the gas pedal were quicker than normal, his turn of the ignition key was more forceful, and he kept changing channels on the AM radio, not finding a song he liked. I wondered, what was up this evening? We headed out like we were going to his high school and drove right past it. Hmm, where are we going? A few minutes past his high school, we pulled into a Jack in the Box fast-food restaurant. What, all this way just for a Jumbo Jack? I wondered what was up, as the kid had been in the restaurant for a while. Then suddenly, out he came, but he was not alone. The kid had a cute gal in tow. She was a looker. She climbed in the car, and she smelled like burgers and fries, a perfect perfume for the Kid. Could this be his first car date? We’d see if the bench seat came in handy later this evening.

So, pizza and a movie for the first date. What a big spender the kid is. I wonder if there might be a good-night kiss in the making? She seems to be keeping to her side of that bench seat, and her seatbelt is buckled nice and snug.

The drop-off was uneventful. At least he dropped her off back at her house and not at Jack in the Box. The kid seemed happy on the way home. The song “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” by Elvin Bishop came on the radio. The kid turned the volume way up. Dang, I think the kid may be smitten.

The next couple of years flew by, and suddenly, the kid was going into his senior year and would be graduating soon. I wasn’t sure what that meant for me.

On the last day of his senior year, we were at a neighborhood party. We parked right on the front lawn, so the kid must have known the people well, or at least I hoped so. There were a ton of kids going back and forth into the house, all holding Dick’s cups full of “Vitamin R.” My top was down, and many of the kids would come out just to sit on my hood and hang out, kind of like a mini-Woodstock.

I hadn’t seen the kid for a few hours, so he must have been having fun. A few minutes later, he walked out holding hands with a beautiful gal with long brown hair and big, beautiful brown eyes. The kid was really out-kicking his coverage with this gal.

The kid, always the gentleman, opened the passenger door for the brown-haired beauty and walked around and hopped into the driver’s seat. With this new gal, there was no snug seatbelt for her, she slid right over to cuddle with the kid, who had a big ol’ smile on his face.

Months go by, and the kid is seeing a lot of the brown-eyed babe. I’m not sure what’s so special about my backseat, but they’re spending more time back there than up front. For Christmas, I hope the kid asks Santa for new shocks.

Summer and football season go by in a flash, and suddenly, it’s the end of the season. After-game drives are usually fun and exciting. But tonight seems quite different. The brown-haired maven opens her own door and climbs into the passenger seat and snugly fastens her seatbelt. The Kid does the same thing. Hmm, no snuggling. I wonder what is up? I detect a chill and awkwardness. The drive to the gal’s house is quick and quiet with no music playing. Much too quiet, I do not like this. We pull into the driveway, and the goodbye is just a curt, “See you at school” as she exits me to her house.

The kid turns us around, and before I know it, we are back on I-5 heading south. On the radio comes the song “Baby Come Back,” and I see a tear tumble down the Kid’s cheek. Don’t worry, Kid, this is just part of life. There will be more love to come.

Two years later… It’s been a bit of a boring routine the past couple of years. Trips to school, work, and the golf course have fallen into a lackluster routine. Then one cool September morning, the Kid comes down the stairs with a suitcase and continues to pack me full of boxes, clothes, and of course his golf clubs. I wonder what’s up, where are we going?

All I know is that we leave early one morning and hit I-5 South hard. Before I know it, we are blazing through Portland, Oregon. The Kid is really letting me stretch my legs, and it feels amazing. Ashland is just a blur as we roar through the small town. A short while later, I see a sign: “Welcome to California.” This is cool, I have never been to Cali before. We stop in the town of Weed about an hour south of the Cali border, soaking in beautiful California sunshine. The Kid stops for gas, and my top comes down, Yahoo! I wonder where we are going?

We drive through the night, and as the sun rises, I see a sign that reads “San Diego City Limits.” I feel the kid take his foot off the gas as we decelerate for the Mission Beach exit. Beach living in San Diego, we are living large, kid!

The next few years of college fly by. I loved San Diego and all the beach time. The Kid would take me to the beach, and we would park right next to the famous Belmont Rollercoaster, where he would break out the car wax and shine me up. I think he did it as much to meet girls as he did to make me look good.

One night, the kid and about six of his friends piled into me, top down, and we headed south on “The 5” as they say in California. South, where are we heading? The only thing south of San Diego is Mexico. I have heard nightmare stories of Mexican chop shops. I don’t want to end up in pieces, being parted out all over the world.

The Kid’s friends are talking about a place called Tijuana and all the bars there. Sure enough, we cross the border into Mexico and make the short drive to the famous Tijuana strip, filled with bars, street food, and maybe even a strip joint or two. Kid, where are you taking me? You had better find a safe place to park me! The kid finds an open parking spot on a dark side street. Everyone gets out and leaves me. Wait, wait, you can’t leave me here! I don’t even speak the language!

As the sun rises in Mexico the next morning, I see the squad tumbling my way. I am still in one piece and have made a few low-rider friends. As it turns out, I come to love Mexico. The cars and people are so friendly. We made more than our fair share of trips south of the border over my San Diego years.

College graduation day arrives in San Diego, and yes, the entire family from Seattle came. The pretty mom and the cute girl, who is now married and pregnant. Of course, the old guy was there as well. I wonder where me and the Kid were going next, what adventure did he have in store for us? I was parked on the street right outside the kid’s rental house. Out he came with a couple of suitcases and walked right by me over to a plain old boring beige six-cylinder Chevy Malibu. And why is he opening the trunk of that car and loading his suitcases? What was he doing, and where was he going? He can’t possibly go anywhere without me. We are a team. I don’t think he can make it on his own.

The Kid must have felt my angst. He walked over to me and climbed into the driver’s seat, putting his hands on the steering wheel in the 10 and 2 position, he had never done that before. He sat there for a few minutes in silence, probably reminiscing about all the great times we had together. I saw him turn his head slightly towards the backseat, a sly smile forming on his face. In an easy voice he said, “Thanks for all the fun times we have had and for getting me around in grand style. We made a good team. I have a job waiting for me in Boston, and I can’t take you with me. It’s cold and snowy there, and you will rust and die on the east coast. My dad is going to drive you back to Seattle, he will work on you and fix you up and take great care of you. Don’t worry, we will ride again someday.” And with a couple pats on my dashboard, off the kid walked to a new life somewhere far away. Can a car cry? As the kid walked away and passed the old guy, the Kid said, “Hey dad, I see some radiator fluid leaking, you better get that checked out before you leave for Seattle.”

The old guy smiled and replied, “Will do, son. The radiator probably just needs a little topping off.” “You drive safely to Boston, son.”

The old guy slid into the driver’s seat, ceremoniously pulling out his driving gloves and starting me right up. And with a big grin and a twinkle in his eye, we made our way to I-5, and he pointed me north.

It’s about 1,200 miles north to Seattle, and with the old guy at the helm, we made it in record time. The old guy knows his way around the roads, and God forbid if someone was driving 55 in the left lane. With Frank Sinatra playing “My Way” on the 8-track stereo, he would swoop in five feet from the offending car’s bumper and hit his high beams on and off like a Navy P-51 Mustang fighter coming in for the kill on a Japanese Zero. The car would finally move over, and he would shake his fist in victory. The old guy was quite the character.

We pulled into my old garage late in the evening after two solid days on the road. I began my semi-retirement.

The next decade was chill. The old guy was always working on me, and he took me in for a fresh paint job and an engine overhaul. I felt young again. The old guy would take me out for a drive about once a week. I know he loved driving me. We would never go too far, usually just a country drive or a trip to the golf course. He did like to go fast, and he would usually look for an isolated stretch of road where he could rev me up to triple digits on the speedometer. I think he loved the freedom he had driving me, especially with the top down.

As the years passed, the weekly drives with the old guy became less frequent and of shorter duration. I am not sure what was going on, but we got lost a few times, and it took him a while to find his way back home.

One day, suddenly there was this loud explosion of yelling, it sounded like a bomb going off. The mom was standing at the top of the stairs and was demanding the keys to me. In a calm voice she said, “Don, it is no longer safe for you to be driving, especially the Mustang. You could injure yourself or someone else. I am sorry, but your driving days are over.”

In a booming voice, the old guy, who, by the way, was a world-class yeller, screamed, “I am fine! I am a better driver than 99% of the drivers on the road! You can’t take my keys away.” “You can go to hell, woman!” I had never seen the old guy this angry. Quickly he took the keys, jumped in my driver’s seat, slammed me in reverse, tore out of the garage, scratching the wood trim. Once out, he threw me into first gear and burned rubber all the way to the corner, where we did a power-drift turn. In the rearview mirror, I could see that sweet mom waving her arms, yelling, “Don, come back before you hurt somebody!”

Well, me and the old guy drove and drove. I had a full tank of gas, so I knew we could be out for quite a while. The sun dipped below the horizon, and day turned to night, and we kept on driving. I could tell the old guy was really lost. I don’t think he could find his way home even if he wanted to. We kept driving, and we finally ran out of gas as I stalled in the middle of a side road in South Seattle. The old guy just sat there pounding on the steering wheel with tears of frustration and fear pouring out. Suddenly blue lights were flashing behind us. The cop walked up to the car and asked if we needed any help. The old guy just handed him his driver’s license with his address and said, “Please just take me home.” It took about an hour for the tow truck to show up and load me up to take us back home. I sat in the driveway for a few days before someone came and finally put me in the garage. The old guy was quiet, I think accepting the gravity of his deteriorating health. That was the last drive for the old guy and the last time I would be driven for over a decade.

The next 13 years were the worst of my muscle-car life. There I sat in the garage under a cheap gray car cover. Demoted to relic status and becoming a glorified storage rack. Since I never moved, everyone thought it was OK to set all types of stuff on me. It was NOT OK. I am a classic Ford Mustang, and I deserve at least some degree of respect. But for over 15 years, that respect and love never came. I ached with loneliness and yearned for someone, anyone, to take me for a drive, even if it was just around the block. I could feel my tires flatten, oil thicken, and gas deteriorate. I was falling apart, piece by piece, death by 1,000 mechanical cuts.

The Kid, my partner for so many years, who told me in San Diego that “we would ride again someday,” was rarely seen. I saw the Kid maybe once or twice a year, and he barely gave me the time of day. Every now and then he would come down to the garage and partially remove my cover and sit in the driver’s seat. He would bring his kids, and they would crawl all over me and sit and play in the back seat. If they only knew what went on back there, serves them right.

He would then get out and cover me up like some old forgotten artifact. Please, put me out of my misery and take me to the junkyard. I can’t do this any longer. A few Christmases ago, he came and set a box of presents on my hood and just left. Thanks for nothing, dude. On his way out, the Kid saw my radiator fluid leaking again, and he wondered, how is that happening? Yes, old cars can cry.

Five years later, I was on life support. I was barely breathing. My tires were flat. All the gas in my tank had completely evaporated. My oil was like sludge from the Bering Sea. My transmission and brake fluid were so old and dry it was flaking. My battery was as dead as a doornail. And my spark plugs were so corroded that they were molded to the engine block. I was a mess. I had been like this for so long that I had absolutely zero hope for any type of revival. I could feel the abyss of the junkyard growing closer every day.

The mom hadn’t been down to the garage to even set something on me in over a year. The old guy passed on to the great Mustang freeway in the sky a while ago. The kid hasn’t been around for a couple of years now. Here I sat, rotting away to a slow muscle-car death.

Then one day, suddenly a light hit me as someone was pulling the cover off me. Shock of all shocks, it was the kid! Man, has he aged. Look at that gray hair, at least what is left of it. And he has a little gut going now, rough. But don’t get me wrong, it was fantastic to see him again.

The kid climbed right into the driver’s seat and patted my dashboard and said, “Time to ride again!” Really, now? How? I am in such rough shape, how will I ever drive again? Kid, are you going to fix me up? I mean, no disrespect, but you can barely turn a screwdriver. As the kid continued to pull my cover back, I saw this new guy with him that I had never seen before. The new guy carried a toolbox and had a look in his cool, calm, collected eyes that said, “I know what I am doing.”

The new guy got right down to business. He popped my hood and did a quick and thorough check of my engine and brakes. He brought with him a portable air compressor, and he started inflating my tires. I could at least roll again! Yeah, the new guy could take care of business. They pushed me out into the driveway, where I felt the sun and fresh air for the first time in over a decade. I felt a ray of hope course through me. A few minutes later, a flatbed tow truck pulled up. Sure enough, they rolled me right onto the flatbed and latched me down tightly. During the years in the garage, I had completely lost my top, so there I sat on the flatbed truck, top down, grateful that it was a nice sunny day.

Suddenly the thought hit me, where are we going? In all the excitement, I hadn’t thought about our destination. I had a sudden panic, could we be heading to the junkyard? Is this my final trip? My anxiety was eased as the Kid walked by and told the tow-truck driver, “Follow me home.”

We drove for about 20 miles to a town called Mukilteo. We pulled up to a nice house with a gorgeous view of the water and mountains. I guess the kid had done well for himself. They backed up and slid me right into one of the garage bays. The new guy had the eye of the tiger, he got right to work. Before I knew it, he had me up on blocks and had all my fluids drained and hoses inspected and changed. What was the Kid doing when the new guy was doing all the work? The Kid was standing around trying to look like he knew what was going on and that he was actually doing something. Every now and then the Kid would hand the new guy a tool or two, way to go, kid. The new guy was amazing, and in just a few long days he had me feeling good.

The kid and the new guy showed up early one morning. The kid dropped into the front seat and said, “Today we start you up” as he patted me vigorously on the dashboard. The kid got out and stretched like it was him that was going to start up. He came around and climbed into the driver’s seat and inserted the key in my ignition for the first time in a very long time. The new guy was standing at the front of the car with a fire extinguisher in hand. He said, “I don’t think we will need this, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I don’t want to burn your house down.” I really liked this new guy, he had his act together. I hope the kid was taking notes.

“OK, here we go!”. I felt the kid give me a couple of pumps with the gas pedal, and I felt that life-giving fuel filling my carburetor. The new guy yelled, “OK, hit it!” as he gripped the fire extinguisher tighter. The Kid turned the key, and I felt power go from the battery to my starter and my spark plugs fire up. I coughed a few times, belching thick blue smoke out my tailpipe. Everything finally synced up, and I roared to life! I could feel the old guy up there in Heaven cheering, pumping his leather-covered fist in celebration. The kid jumped out and did a little jig of celebration. A big smile broke out on the new guy’s face as he lowered the unused fire extinguisher to the floor. I was alive again!

“The Kid’s” sign-off.

Over the next few years, we continued to make improvements on the “Stang.” The Stang received new leather seats, carpet, and an entire new dash and gauges.

Now back in the Pacific Northwest, it’s been 8 years since the rebirth of the Stang. She still starts right up and roars to life, ready to stretch her long legs on the roads around Mukilteo and Seattle. For over 50 years, she’s been a constant and faithful companion on the winding roads of life.

As the decade rolls on, the Mustang still receives quite a bit of road time in her newly updated chassis. This included a pandemic-inspired move to sunshine-filled Bend, OR, where the Stang was a frequent sight on the sunny backroads and streets of Central Oregon for over four years.

I can’t tell you how often I have had people pass by and ask if they could take a picture with the Mustang. After the picture, as if on cue, they would proceed to tell their Mustang story, how they used to have a Mustang or a friend or relative had a Mustang. The stories were interesting, and they all ended in exactly the same way. ALL the stories ended with “I sure wish I would have kept my Mustang.”

I am so fortunate to have been driving The Stang now for over 5 decades. I am not a car guy by any stretch of the imagination, and I could certainly do a better job of taking care of the Stang. I get asked frequently if I would ever sell the car. I think of all the memories, all the stories in that car. I see old high school and college friends, and they all have a Stang story. But how do you put a price on five decades of stories and memories? On a car that still roars to life, carrying with her the echoes of family and friends.