Rocketing on a Comet

For the last few weeks, I have been listening to Demon Copperhead, Barbara Kingsolver’s novel about life in the western part of Virginia (not West Virginia) as seen through the eyes of her young protagonist. The region was coal country until it wasn’t, and nothing replaced the coal as a source of sustenance.

I am enjoying the book, but I didn’t personally relate to its tale of sprawling families, foster care, Friday night football, borderline poverty, and Ford pick-up trucks until a minor character drove up in a Comet. And I was back in 1972.

How many of you have heard of the 1970s-era Mercury Comet, the unheralded, slightly upscale step-brother of the very popular Ford Maverick? A dark blue 2-door Comet was the first car my family owned, the first car I ever drove.

How did my parents, perpetual bus and EL riders, wind up buying such an unsung vehicle? My sister Linda, then 21, needed a car to commute to a teaching position. Her fiance and future husband Alan had a contact at a suburban Lincoln Mercury dealer and owned a Comet himself. It was Alan’s suggestion that led to our Comet purchase.

I was 16 years old. The Comet appeared at just the right time for me. At first Linda and I shared the car, but it became mine alone when Linda and Alan married. Other than occasionally chauffeuring my parents (doctor’s offices, Walker Bros. Pancakes) I could use it as I pleased.

What a joy to have a car! I no longer needed to take the Skokie Swift to visit my suburban girlfriend. Drive-in movies became a possibility, too. College became an easy commute, and I could drive home from my job at the service desk of the local Jewel after closing the store at midnight.

Unfortunately, the Comet was not built to last. The first hint of trouble was a broken belt on the Dan Ryan Expressway coming home from a wedding in the far south suburbs. A friendly service station got us back on our way.

A bit later, when my friend Michael and I steered my blue magic carpet on the Indiana Toll Road toward New York, the clips holding the muffler snapped. The exhaust system dragged along the concrete roadbed for miles, sparks flying until we could reach the next exit and another friendly service station.

The worst to happen to the Comet was not of its own doing. During a severe rainstorm, the commuter parking lot at Northwestern University flooded. After a morning of classes, I returned to a car with water in the interior higher than the seat cushions. Although the car was cleaned and detailed, no amount of car freshener could hide the lingering musty odor.

It was the odor that finally convinced Barb and me that this burned-out Comet was no longer in our orbit. We sold it to a man with a more forgiving nose and replaced it with a Pontiac Phoenix—another disaster waiting to happen, and a story for another day.

I’m looking forward to reading more about young Demon Copperhead, and I hope all his life and car choices were wise ones. I’m rooting for him to succeed, and a young man needs a good set of wheels!

What was your first car? Leave a Comment below!