Everyone remembers their first car. Not just what they drove, but how it felt: windows down, music up, the rush of freedom.
For my dad, that memory is chrome and loud, with side exhausts and a 427 engine under the hood. For me, I had two “firsts.” One I wrecked. The other, a midnight purple 1994 Chevy Beretta, carried me through my college days filled with late-night drives, mixtapes, and more roadtrips that I can count.
A couple of years ago, during a pre-Christmas brunch, I asked my Dad to tell me about his first car. I pressed record on my phone, and the story that unfolded was part muscle car, part hard-won triumph, and part father sharing a memory his daughter would keep for a lifetime.
The Stingray Story
“It all started the summer after my freshman year of college,” dad began.
He had gone out to California to work for the Santa Fe Railroad, a job his older brother had set up. That summer, one of his brother’s friends was selling a 1966 Corvette Stingray: chrome trim, side exhausts, and a 427 engine with 400 horsepower.
“He only wanted $1,400 for it,” Dad said. “But I told my brother, ‘Man, I can’t afford that.’ I was making $6.75 an hour.”
But one missed shift changed the story completely.
Over the July 4th weekend, he was called in on what was supposed to be a day off. Double time. When the man meant to relieve him never showed, it turned into quadruple time. By the time the paycheck came, he had over $1,000 in overtime.
“I bought the Corvette in cash,” he said. “It was like a gift.”
With his overtime pay turned into steel and horsepower, he packed his bags and drove the Stingray home.
Denver to the Driveway
Somewhere near Denver, he stopped to call his mom.
“I told her where I was, and she said, ‘Well, you’re a thousand miles away. It’ll be a couple days.’ And I told her, ‘Yeah… probably a couple days.’”
But he had other plans.
Leaving Denver at 10 p.m., he drove through the night. Back then, Colorado highways weren’t bound by strict limits, just signs that read Resume Safe Speed.
“I was cruising around 120, 125 once I hit Nebraska,” he said. “Then I saw headlights gaining behind me. I thought it was a trooper, so I slowed down.”
It wasn’t. It was a girl in a Dodge Charger. She passed him, and naturally, he couldn’t let her get away.
“I put it down. We were both pushing 130. Then I thought, ‘Let’s see what she’s got.’ I took it up to 145.”
For a stretch, it was just the road, the blur of lines, and the roar of two engines.
Then came the thought: If I have a blowout, they’ll never find me. His knees shook, and he eased off, holding steady at 100 to 110 mph.
The dueling duo rode that way through Iowa until spotting a state trooper up ahead. Both slowed. She exited for gas. He kept going, pulling into his driveway by early afternoon, days earlier than expected.
When I asked if that was the fastest he’d ever gone, he nodded.
“Yeah. Faster than the time I rode in that Phantom. It’s because you’re so low to the ground in a Corvette. Everything just flies by. Even the dotted lines looked like one solid streak.”
The Heart of the Story
So while everyone remembers their first car, what we remember most often depends on the story that came with it. It’s not just the make or model. It’s the job that paid for it. The phone call home. The late-night ride that mixed freedom with youth and made the world feel wide open.
Hearing my dad tell this story reminded me why Placement of Pretty Things exists. Because these aren’t just stories about objects. They’re stories about us—about where we’ve been, what we’ve worked for, and the people who carried us, or sometimes raced past us, along the way.
We hold on to these histories not because they’re perfect, but because they’re ours. And if we’re lucky, we get to hear them told in the voice of someone we love.
What was your parent or grandparent’s first car? Ask them sometime this week, you might be surprised at the stories that are revealed.
