![]() He told me that we will not be putting any more money into that rusty old Civic, and suggested that we find a newer car for me and offered to assist with the payments until I graduated. While he agreed to help, he threw me a curve-ball after seeing the condition of my Honda. I was hoping that the extra pay provided by his oversees service would come to the rescue, again. So, I picked up the phone and called my dad, The Colonel, recently back in the country from a tour of duty in Hungary (part of the Bosnia conflict). Days before, I had determined that my ever-loyal 82 Civic was in need of a carburetor rebuild as well as that as a student living on loans and nothing more than weekend job, I was out of money. It was 1997, and I was a student at Penn State’s Harrisburg Campus. My then-girlfriend (now wife) Janet, and I were looking through the ads, trying to find my new car. If you wanted to find a used car there was really two methods: You drove to a dealership and walked the lots, or you bought yourself a copy of the Auto Trader. The internet was still in it’s infancy at that point one didn’t shop for cars online in 1997. The first time I saw my ’95 Thunderbird was in a little black and white picture in the local Auto Trader magazine. I was in school, and on my own for the first time. It wasn’t my first car, but it was the first car that really begged me to drive long distances, just for the sake of seeing new places. For me, it describes a carefree time, when I’d look for that long road heading off into the horizon, and drive it just to see where it goes. The first verse in Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” David Gilmour sings: “Into the distance a ribbon of black, stretched to the point of no turning back.” This is the music that comes to mind when I think of my Thunderbird. ![]()
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