‘Andare a vivere la tua passione’: Living Dad’s advice

Wow wee!!! I feel like a teenager (sans the pony tail) and here’s why: I have a brand new car — and not just any run-of-the- mill car. It’s a hot sporty model with a turbo engine.

In the aftermath of my husband Frank’s death a year ago, I figured I owed myself a treat. And to convince myself further, my brain keep prattling to my wilder side, “If not now, then when?”

The day I received a call from the dealership that the “eagle had landed”, I felt giddy with excitement. My excitement evaporated in a New York minute when I realized that I had to clean out my old car. The aforementioned car was the last car Frank drove.

I put off cleaning out the car until the 11th hour — and thank goodness, I was alone. Once again, I was dismantling another piece of our lives. And to my astonishment, I discovered a pair of Frank’s sunglasses in the car. Well, I needn’t tell you it was “water works” time.

The next day, excitement was back on the scene. After signing the necessary papers, I was good to go. I had my picture taken alongside my new wheels for posterity; I revved the engine and took off, literally!

I have a bit of a lead foot, so reminded myself to go easy — and I did. After a few miles, I was puzzled to see the name of a friend displayed on the instrument panel. Talk about bells and whistles! When I arrived home, I checked the owner’s manual. It seems that when I receive a text message, the name of the sender appears on the dash. I knew I was going to love this car. But then again, I tend to fall in love easily — with cars, that is.

My first car was a caterpillar-yellow Ford Mustang — very, very, used. I worked my butt off the summer before my 18th birthday to save money to buy a car. A month before my birthday, Dad and I scoured the local newspaper for suitable used cars. Although Dad and I agreed on most things, we changed lanes when it came to buying my first car.

Dad would steer me to low mileage, “old people’s” cars. (Ha! The folks, who owned them, were probably younger than I am today.) My mind was set on a sporty convertible. I didn’t have a specific make or model in mind, but I knew that I wanted something flashier than a maroon Plymouth.

My heart did a two-step when I saw a new listing for a 1959 Ford Mustang. I called Dad at his office and excitedly told him about my find. He reluctantly agreed to take me to look at the car that evening.

Although it was not a convertible, for me it was love at first sight; can’t say the same for Dad. He nudged me, excused us from the car’s owner (a very cool-looking older guy, maybe 25), and took me for a walk around the block.

Dad said, “Mia cara figlia dolce (my dear sweet daughter) this car is a hot rod, not what you want.”

“But Daddy,” says I, “this exactly what I want. And besides, I’m paying.”

Dad was a free-thinker, a man ahead of his time. And his “mia cara figlia dolce” could be very persuasive. After few-go-rounds, Dad relented. I forked over my hard-earned cash and the Mustang was mine.

In due time, Dad concurred that I indeed got my money’s worth. My Mustang, served me well until my friend’s foot went through the floorboard. I saw the writing on the wall: It was time to break up and say goodbye. And, yup, I cried. (Breakups make me cry, cars or otherwise.)

The Mustang was replaced by an equally exciting car: A used 1965 Chevy Impala Super Sport red and white convertible. I was a tad older, with enormous responsibilities. But whenever I could get away, I took my then gal-pals to New Jersey’s prima fun place: Wildwood. Back then, Wildwood was where the action was!

We usually hit the road early Saturday mornings. In my mind’s eye, I can still see us cruising down the New Jersey Turnpike, with the radio blasting and our pony tails flying in the breeze. And, oh boy, did we garner a lot of attention. We were hot, or so we thought! But in retrospect, I think it was the car that attracted the attention.

Those Wildwood days ended, as well as owning exciting cars. Now a bonafide adult, I was busy schlepping my sons to their various activities, working weekends, and attending college at night. Seriously? I don’t know how I did it.

Fun destinations were replaced by necessity destinations. There wasn’t time to enjoy the open road and take long solitary drives (Something I still love to do.) And besides, during those years, owning a series of station wagons wasn’t glamorous.

But wait… I do remember a brown Toyota hatchback, that wasn’t exciting, (I mean, really, the color was mud brown!) but I liked it for its practicality. The hatchback enabled me to load my sons, their friends, the dog, and the groceries through the back. My sons were prone to the “he touched me” syndrome. Teddy, our dog, was fond of making his way to the widow by walking atop the kids– slobbering all the way. The noise level was deafening — and I loved it!

I also love motorcycles and still get a thrill when I hear them roaring down the road. During the Jamesport St. Patrick’s parade when the bikers rode by, some of my friends, urged me to jump on the back of one. (Way too wild, even for me!) Instead, I snapped a picture and sent it to my sons. Needless to say “motorcycle momma” doesn’t sit well with them. Number 1 son texted back immediately: “You’re not into that again, are you?” Number 2 son: “Mom cut it out, stick with the car!”

Yup, I’ll stick with the car, for now. I am enjoying my long solidary drives while playing my favorite music. I park anywhere that strikes my fancy and look out over the water wondering where road of life will take me. As far as I can see right now, the road is wide open.

I also wonder what Dad would think about my new life, car, and perhaps a Harley in the future. If I close my eyes, and concentrate, I can almost hear him say: “Figlia mia dolce, andare a vivere la tua passione.” (My dear sweet daughter, go and live your passion.)

Thanks, Dad! That’s precisely what I intend to do!