My early years were consumed with following my dad around the garage fetching wrenches and riding to car shows with him. I have pictures of many of his high school cars, almost all of which happened to be ’49 through ’51 Fords. A few coupes, several Fordors, a smattering of Tudors. Of course, I developed a love for the Shoebox Ford.
It was the car guy equivalent of having that friend stop by and immediately locate the missing half-inch socket that you’d been searching for hours to find. My belief that “all things are delicately interconnected” was vindicated once again, via a man I will never have the pleasure of shaking hands with on this Earth. His tragic loss of life would, some fourteen years later, play a part in giving me a fresh perspective on something. All through a few words typed onto a laminated card attached to a flag pole in a park.
Not only does a woman (regardless of her age) driving a classic Camaro get a lot of attention, it also gives her instant credibility with the racing community. Hauling the mail around a track in 3,000 pounds of steel with a non-compliant Super T-10 four speed, isn’t exactly lady-like. Suddenly my weekends were filled with friends, laughter and camaraderie. No longer was I ‘Rodney’s wife, who brought the salad’, I was Suzy the co-driver of the white Camaro.