My first automobile purchase as a sixteen-year-old was a 1937 Studebaker four-door sedan. Two of my buddies, Bruce and Jerry, and I had decided to buy jalopies, spending no more than $100 for each and to race them as stock cars in an empty lot next to Jerry’s house.

Within minutes of purchasing the Studebaker, I ruthlessly removed the fenders, headlights and knocked out all the glass windows. Sadly, the family I bought the car from remembered something in the glove compartment they failed to remove and drove to where I had just completed the modifications. The family had used that car as transportation to our town’s swimming pool and the kids had named the car “Heathcliff.” What a heart breaker it was to see the kids burst into tears when they saw what I had done to their precious Heathcliff.

My next purchase was a 1942 Ford coup I bought for a couple hundred bucks that I intended to use for transportation to high school. I worked parttime in a gas station and had learned a lot about auto mechanics, but my dad didn’t understand that and criticized me for buying such a wreck. He was somewhat correct because within the first week the Ford’s transmission failed. However, it was no problem because I bought a used transmission from the junk yard and installed it in Jerry’s back yard. My next modification was the removal of the Ford’s engine and replace it with a ’50 Mercury V-8 I bought for $50. Dad didn’t know about any of that until the evening I blasted by his new Buick Special leaving him in my dust as he returned from the work. “What did you do to that car?” he exclaimed.

Dad got involved in my next car acquisition when he helped me purchase a 1953 MG TD that had been rebuilt by a British mechanic. I was paying my father a few dollars each week to pay him back for the purchase. I loved that car. I couldn’t have a car my first year of college so had to leave the MG parked at home in our driveway. Without telling me, my sister reported that dad got tired of the extra car in front of the garage and sold the MG to buy my mother a Hammond organ. I was heartbroken but while not acknowledging awareness of the sale, twisted the knife in my letters home by always mentioning how much I looked forward to driving my beloved MG.

Guilt may have been part of the reason dad stepped up to help me purchase the next beauty, a 1957 MGA. Wow, what a major design change that was from the MG TD. I had that sports car for two of my college years. It appeared in our homecoming parade with a fake windup key attached to the trunk with a sign that said “Don’t Toy with the Cardinals.”

I rarely put the top up on that sportscar even on the coolest days. One memorable experience was a trip from my home in Connecticut to Illinois with my girlfriend who had been spending some days with me visiting my parents. As the temperatures dropped that afternoon, she decided she needed to change out of her shorts and halter top while still underway. The semi-truck driver I pulled next to on the highway apparently enjoyed the strip tease, if the blaring of his diesel horn was any indication.

My next vehicle was a giant step back from sportscars when I purchased a 1960 VW bug. I had that car when I married and started flight training in the Navy. My new bride had a 1963 Chevrolet Monza convertible. One of our trips with the two cars involved driving from Pensacola to Corpus Christi, Texas for my advanced flight training. Keeping the two cars together on the highway was a challenge. I had suggested the hand signals I used in formation flying but my wife thought that was just dumb and when crossing into Texas took the lead in frustration. My VW’s top speed was no match for her Chevy, but I discovered by getting close behind her car and drafting, my bug could be pulled along several MPHs above its normal max. That worked fine until we were stopped by a Texas Ranger. My bride was a good talker and after telling the officer I was a Navy pilot and how excited we were to be in Texas, he said, ”Well, little lady, no since giving two tickets to the same family, so I’ll just give it to him.” Geeze.

We had those same two cars later when moving from Florida to my new squadron in Maine. I had just completed training assignments in Norfolk and Jacksonville and had a government check in my pocket of $1,200 that covered per diem expenses. Unfortunately, half-way to Maine the Volkswagon threw a rod requiring a two day stop for repairs. Cost of repair … $1,200.

After a year in Maine, our squadron was scheduled for a six-month deployment to Rota, Spain. My wife was going to accompany me. What to do with the convertible and VW during that time overseas? We were to leave in August 1965 and we decided to trade both cars in on a new 1966 model although no one knew what the new cars would look like. Our future car would be a Chevy Malibu station wagon.

In Spain, Navy squadrons turned over every six months and departing officers sold their automobiles to the new squadron personnel replacing them. I bought a powder blue, 1957 Ford convertible with three whitewall tires. In addition to my flying responsibilities, I was also our squadron’s supply officer. I had a Chief Petty Officer and six very resourceful enlisted men working for me. I was proud of my Ford purchase, but it didn’t run very well. When I pulled up in front of our supply office to show off my car, the chief said, “Mr. Stark, why don’t you give me that car for 24-hours to do a little tuning up.” The Spain base had a junk yard of hundreds of abandoned cars. The chief took my Ford, replaced the heads, carburetor, spark plugs and distributor and the convertible top mechanism and returned the car to me running like it had just left the Detroit assembly line.

My wife and I drove that car throughout southern Spain  during a week-long leave. My favorite stunt was to pull into the middle of a small Spanish village and lower the convertible top to the shouts of “Ole!” from all the villagers.

Gad, I loved those old cars.