In my early- and mid-teens I dreamed of having a ’57 Chevy with those beautiful tail fins and those big rubber things that looked like, well, looked like so many things did to boys that age. I wanted a ’57 because that was the year of my birth and because in my biased judgment that was the most beautiful model year.

My dream car had a metallic root beer paint job. Metallic paint was HUGE back then, and my favorite drink was root beer. I loved that rich translucent brown color with those metallic flakes that made it sparkle like a diamond—-the paint, not the drink.

If I couldn’t have that car, I’d “settle” for a Camaro, Challenger, Firebird, Corvette, Barracuda, TransAm, Mustang, or other sleek, cool fast cars of that ilk. All the guys said those cars were “Chick Magnets”. And, oh how I wanted a “chick”!

But I only had $300–which would have probably been about enough to buy just the bumpers of those other beauties—-the cars not the girls.

Since I wouldn’t get very far sitting on bumpers—-no matter how gorgeous they were—-I bought what I could afford that still moved:

A 1960 Rambler.

She was almost as old as I was, and the exact opposite of my dream car. She was big, bulky, slow (I think the word “lumbering” was invented to describe her top speed), white, boring, and about as far from sleek and cool as a car could get in those days.

She had more in common with a brick than the cars I’d dreamt about.

But she was mine, and she moved me, and I grew to love her.

I even gave her a name. Rosie. Rosie the Rambler.

Stay tuned for more stories about Rosie including:

Rosie Saves the Day!
The Time Rosie Made a Cop Lay Rubber Doing a Complete Donut on a Four-Lane Road in the Middle of a City
Rosie in the Mountains
Rosie and the CB Craze
Rosie Earns the Respect of My High School Peers

Russ