I should have listened to the captain of my first ship after I became an officer. With my new pay raise, I thought I was rich and bought a 1968 Dodge Charger, 383 V-8 engine, floor mounted, four-speed Hurst shifter, and a monthly car note that extended out into perpetuity. He said I was “crazy to tote such a note,” and that I should always drive used cars like he did. I didn’t listen, and consequently, I’ve been “upside down” in car financing for 50 years.
I knew he was telling the truth, and that there are so many advantages to buying a used car instead of a new one. Perhaps most important is that you don’t suffer the infamous “drive-off depreciation hit,” where a new car typically loses 10% to 15% of its value the moment you drive it off the dealer’s lot. That’s money you can never recover, even if you turn around and sell the car the same day. Then there’s lower initial cost; the used car might be better equipped with more luxury features than you could ordinarily afford; lower insurance costs; easier financing, etc. – in general, you probably get more car for your money.
On the other hand, if you buy a new car, you end up paying more, but you get the advantages of no prior owner; no hidden abuse, neglect, or accident history; no unknown maintenance gaps; the latest safety and media technology; usually better fuel economy; lower emissions, and you can customize it to suit your taste. But, as many car salespersons might agree, there’s also what I call the “X-factor” – the feeling of excitement, reassurance, and quiet pride that you feel when you sit behind the wheel of your new ride. It feels like a fresh start; nothing is worn out, no tire is slick; it’s not really about metal and rubber, it’s about accomplishment, independence, and pride of ownership. And there’s that new car “smell,” which really does trigger a pleasurable response in the brain. I bet you can smell it now.
I’d just as soon forget most of the times I’ve bought new cars because, truthfully, it was like a sheep being led to the slaughter. I prefer to remember some of the things that have happened to me after I purchased certain vehicles, and random events or experiences that stick in my mind after a lifetime of running the roads. Let me share just a few because, I guess, I really have always been “car crazy.”
Always fascinated by cars, as a kid, I can remember going to the S. H. Kress department store on Main Street in Hattiesburg in the late 1940s and buying the post-war Japanese toy cars made from tin, with key-wound motors. They cost less than a dollar, and although my family only came to the big city about once a month, mostly to Sears and Roebuck, I managed to collect a fleet of them. They are valuable collector’s items today, and I have been able to find a few over the years, but none like I had back in the day.
When I was in high school, I had an old rattle trap of a car that would go fast, all things considered. One day, my friend and I were coming out of Purvis, headed south on Highway 11, long before Interstate 59 was even thought of, and I noticed that we were being followed by the Mississippi Highway Patrol. Like the dummy I was, I decided to outrun him, although he had not yet turned on his blue lights. By the time we got to Seneca, he was no longer in sight. I decided to lose him once and for all, so I turned off and went around by the Catholic church, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, crossed the railroad track, and continued around by Little Black Creek Baptist Church and came into Lumberton on the back side. We were feeling proud of ourselves until we came to the red light in the middle of town, because there he was, sitting in his car, waiting on us, with a big smirk on his face. He scared us to death, but would you believe he didn’t even give me a ticket?
I’ve owned several Volkswagens in my life, but an experience with the first Beetle was the most memorable. I was headed north up the New Jersey Turnpike, passing through Jersey City, about 9:00 PM one night, pedal to the metal, on my way to Boston, and the car slowly lost power, the engine died, and I rolled to a stop barely between the slow lane and the Jersey barrier. I sat there for a few minutes, contemplating my surroundings. I don’t know if you are familiar with Jersey City, New Jersey, but think “cold, dark, urban, inner city, industrial.” In a few minutes, however, a black Cadillac sedan pulled in front of me and stopped. Three men got out and approached my VW. As far as how they looked, let’s just say that they fit every stereotype of the mafia, of “made men,” that I ever held. And I knew enough about Jersey City to know that it was Palermo, Sicily, west. I figured it was the “end” – but they only asked if I needed any help – and you know what? They called a tow truck; followed us to the nearest VW dealer; and then took me to the closest motel after asking if I had enough money. That’s a strange VW story, but perhaps a better one is about how I traded a VW van for a metal tourist map of Mississippi, which is hanging in my garage today. I was sober.
I do go way back with VWs. When my son was a junior in high school in Rhode Island, he wanted a car. I was all for that, so I bought two wrecked Volkswagen convertibles, one wrecked in the front, and the other in the back. I welded the two good parts together (not as simple as it sounds) and, “voila!” - we had a perfect VW convertible which I painted yellow. It even had one of the rare semi-automatic transmissions. Unfortunately, my boy drove it for a few weeks, decided he didn’t like it, and we sold it to a Marine at the Naval War College. I ended up buying him a new car in Tylertown the next time we came home on leave.
I’ve only owned one Cadillac, a 1956 Coupe de Ville, which I bought in Tijuana, Mexico. Although it was on its last legs, I was able to nurse it up Interstate 5 to Long Beach, where my ship was in the shipyard. The yard had a great hobby shop/garage where sailors could work on their cars in their off hours, so I took it there and rebuilt the engine. It took me almost a year, working occasionally at night. Since it was the first engine I’d ever rebuilt, I wasn’t too sure about the quality of my work. But it passed the ultimate test when I drove it across country, through the desert and up the mountains, all the way to Massachusetts, without breaking down. I later sold it to pay my boy’s tuition at Pearl River Community College. If you are like me, you regret every car you ever sold, and wish you had it again, going back to the 1951 Ford Victoria sedan I found in a junk yard in Perkinson, Mississippi, and stored at my mother-in-law’s house. I kept it for about ten years, but was always overseas, and never had a decent chance to work on it.
One of my favorite cars, a 1971 Ford LTD coupe, was stolen from in front of my quarters at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. A few weeks later, the FBI showed up at my house, with the car’s license plate, saying that the car had been used in a robbery in Baltimore, Maryland. After satisfying himself that I, a Navy chaplain, was not involved in the robbery, the agent left, leaving me the car tag. He had no idea of what happened to my car which had, thankfully, been covered by insurance.
A few days before, I had used the insurance payout to purchase a new Toyota. My son, Benjy, who was about six, had been wanting to go the big King’s Dominion amusement park, just over the Virginia line, so we decided to go a few days later. And then I did one of the most stupid things I’ve ever done. I had registered the new Toyota and paid the sales tax in Rhode Island, but I hadn’t received the tag yet. I was a little apprehensive about crossing over into Virginia in a car with no license plate, and then I had a great idea! Why not put the license plate that the FBI agent gave me on the new Toyota, after all, it’s my tag. So, I did.
So, there we go. On the interstate, in Virginia, baby Jena crying in the back seat, and for going ten miles per hour over the speed limit, I’m stopped by the Viginia Highway Patrol. “Not to worry, officer, here’s my license. I’m a Navy chaplain. We live in Newport. We are on our way to King’s Dominion.” He is very nice, goes back to his car, runs my license plate number through his computer and, of course, it reports that it belongs on a car that was involved in a robbery in Baltimore, Maryland, a few weeks before. I won’t go into the details, but it took a couple hours to straighten out the mess I’d gotten us in before we finally made it to the amusement park.
I guess the craziest thing I’ve done recently is to buy a car in France without telling my wife beforehand. I’d always wanted a Citroen 2CV, the “deux chevaux,” or “two horse” as it is known (the French tax cars based on horsepower; the 2CV has 28, but it gets a break as an iconic car.). It’s also known as the “umbrella on wheels.” The car was designed before World War II; the French hid the plans from the Nazis, and it didn’t go into production until 1946. Over 3 million were made before production ended in 1990. You might say that it’s the French version of the German Volkswagen Beetle, the “people’s car.” The original design specifications called for a car that would carry two peasants and 110 pounds of potatoes across a plowed field without breaking a basket of eggs; have extreme fuel economy (50 mpg) and be simple enough that the farmer could repair it himself.
This all started one summer a few years ago when I was in Villefranche sur Mer, France, for language school. My wife and I were walking down the street, and I saw this beautiful 1978 2CV for sale. It even had the rare centrifugal clutch, favored by Paris taxi drivers. I made note of the telephone number; called the guy and made the deal; but I forgot to tell my wife. I was still teaching at William Carey when the car showed up on campus several weeks later. I’d shipped it to Jacksonville, Florida, and then had it trucked to Hattiesburg. You probably wonder – yes, I’m still married.
I’ve done many more daft things in my automotive career, but I have some dear memories, too. For example, it was about 1981, and with my best friend, the ship’s doctor, I was riding down Pine Street, the main drag of Long Beach, California. It was dark; we were in my 1980 Pontiac Firebird; the T-tops were in the trunk; the dual exhausts were rumbling; and the radio was humming. We were listening to David Lindley’s version of “Mercury Blues,” a song first recorded in 1952 by Mississippi-born bluesman, L. C. Douglas. Some of the original lyrics went like this:
Hey, mama, tell you what I’d do,
I’d go downtown and buy a Mercury too,
Cause I’m crazy about a Mercury (Ford),
I’m gonna buy me a Mercury and cruise up and down the road.
Baby went out and she didn’t stay long,
She bought herself a Mercury and came cruising home,
Cause she crazy about a Mercury (Ford),
I’m gonna buy me a Mercury and cruise up and down the road.
Soon after that night, the Doc retired to go teach tropical medicine at the Tulane Medical School in New Orleans, and I went on to spend another fifteen years in the Navy, mostly at sea. We were both about as happy then as we had ever been or will be. Who knew?
Light a candle for me.
Benny Hornsby, a resident of Oak Grove, is a retired U.S. Navy captain. Write him at villefranche60@yahoo.com or visit bennyhornsby.com.
