The Buick

Until we decided we needed a used 1986 Ford Econoline custom van to haul our kids, their stuff and their friends, we drove a 1978 Buick Regal. It was one of the first autos with plush fabric seats. We were skeptical about the interior but the salesman said research indicated the upholstery would outlast the car.  He was right, too.

Besides the cushy interior, it had cruise control, a button inside the glove box to pop the trunk open, bucket seats, and a sunroof; all the amenities available in 1978. And it was fast too. We loved it.

One day we were in town and decided to run the Buick through the car wash. About half-way through the cycle, the sunroof sprung a leak. On my side of the car. While my husband quickly checked that it was indeed closed all the way, I scrambled to crawl over the console into the back seat. My gallant husband insisted that I stay where I was so the upholstery wouldn't get wet. 

What a guy. 

He wouldn't leave the car wash with the soap still on the car on, so water continued to drip around the seal. By the time the rinse cycle finished, I was thoroughly soaked, but the seat wasn't getting too much water on it.

We pulled out of the automated car wash and drove directly to the Buick dealership with both of us fuming, but I'm sure for different reasons. I was mad that I was wet and couldn't finish the errands we had come to town to do. My husband was ticked off that his pride and joy had malfunctioned. At the dealership we parked at the curb, and I jumped out and beat my husband to the door.

The salesman met me in the middle of the showroom floor. Before I could utter any of the complaints I had mentally rehearsed, he said, "I thought you were supposed to take your bra off for a wet t-shirt contest."

That remark released the pressure valve on the pent-up steam in my system. My husband was close enough behind me to hear the quip. He and several other employees, the owners and a couple of customers howled with laughter while I bit my lip and tried not to say any words that might make their way back to my grandmother. I threatened to kick the guy who suggested I go ahead and take it off, shirt too.

The fix was an easy one. If we hadn't been trapped inside the car wash, we probably would have figured it out. A drain tube from the sunroof had plugged.

The Regal figured in many notable occasions at our house. My son and one of his friends used it for their science fair experiment. If you attach a small propeller to the lead on a voltmeter, you can use said voltmeter as a wind speed indicator once it is calibrated. The boys took turns standing in the open sun roof holding the propeller while I drove various speeds and the other noted the voltage and speed. They received a blue ribbon for that project.

One summer we decided the farm work was caught up enough for us to take a weekend off and go to Wichita for our wedding anniversary. The car was still in great shape because we took good care of it. We packed an overnight bag and jumped in the Buick. We had driven about five miles, chatting about needing a break from round the clock farm work when my husband asked me a question.

"When's the last time you checked the oil on this car?"

I had a lot of jobs besides helping on the farm by driving the tractor, pulling tanks of fertilizer to the field, keeping the records, and driving the grain trucks during harvest time, such as growing a huge garden, canning the excess, raising children, sewing their clothes and ours. This was during the days when the Women's Libbers got in your face and demanded you join their movement. With all the responsibility I already had, my pat answer was always, "If I got any more liberated, I'd have to change the oil on the tractor." Looking under the hood whether it be a car, pickup truck or tractor was something the guys did.

So I said: "There'd have to be a first time before there could be a last time."

He braked to a stop and opened the hood. There was no oil on the dipstick. So, how long had it been since HE checked the oil?

If cell phones had been invented, he would have called his brother to bring a couple of quarts of motor oil. Instead, we drove back home with him complaining about how irresponsible I was while I indignantly pointed out that I had NEVER once been asked to check the oil on ANYTHING. It. Wasn't. My. Job.

Once home, he said not to drive the car until he got a chance to change the oil. He put on his work clothes and went back to the field in his pickup. I unpacked and sulked. I thought then and still do today that it was a clear cut case of Universal Rule # 1: The woman is always right. Enough said?