73 opel

1973, a year that keeps haunting me in the dead of night at 3:30 in the morning, was a time when the world felt like a small town, and everyone in it was friendly and happy. It was a year that left an indelible mark on my life, a year of innocence and discovery.

1973 was a haven, a small town where you could stroll from one end to the other without a hint of fear. It was a place of order and mutual respect, where the concept of poverty was yet to be introduced, and we were all instilled with a sense of responsibility for our actions.

In 1973, I left grade school, which was two blocks from my house, McClarey School, where you played dodgeball in the basement gym. I had Ice Cream socials in June. All my friends were only two or three blocks from the house. In 1973, Grandpa and Grandma were still alive, and me and my brothers were on that third rung, still children. I was so safe, and the real world was so very far away.

In 1973, me and my brother walk seven miles to the Theodore Roosevelt Junior High School, down locust street past the reservoir where a boy no one remembered fell through the ice, to the end of the street where there was a big old house decaying mansion.

1973 Amsterdam was full of big old decaying mansions. We were told that rich people lived in these places, people who built the big brick factories so everyone could work in them, which was nothing wrong with that. If rich people want to make money by building factories, that’s ok.

1973 was one hundred years later, and the factories the rich people built and promised jobs to for ever and ever were closing. What rich people were left no longer looking outside their big windows but inside themselves?

In 1973, my second brother and I would cut through one rich mansion’s property to get to Market Street. At first, I was afraid to be caught, but soon, it became so commonplace that we never noticed or thought about the rich people in the big house. Their house was so big and far away that it was as if they weren’t really there.

1973 was the year I was introduced to the city before the fools took urban renewal money to make one big speedway. It was a time when bottles of soda were filled at the soda maker, milk was delivered, and there was still an evening paper.

1973 keeps revisiting me, like a lost treasure that I still yearn for.  It’s the year I can’t seem to let go of, a time I keep searching for in my memories.

 For 40 dollars, Dad bought a used 1973 Opel and told us that if we wanted a car, we would have to put it together; he would register it and buy the insurance for it so we could learn to drive.  So, my three other brothers and I took out the engine and gave it a valve job. 

Cleaned out years and years of grease and filth. Taking out the engine is like starting over in life; it gives you another chance at something you failed at years ago, and now, suddenly, you’re free.

I drove the 73 Opel 11 miles to see the woman I loved, only to find her with another man. The car died that day, and I never drove it again. I lay on the couch, pretending to sleep, as I heard her in another room with another man. The pain of that moment was etched into the fabric of the car, a constant reminder of lost love.

 I took out the wiring from the 73 Opel and found all the connections from the power to its destination. Spending one whole day trying to find the short in the wiper blade was like patching my damaged nerve endings.

Completely replaced the brakes, the ball bearings, the gas line, and the tires so we could move again. 

It drove 11 miles and never moved again, but another brother reworked it, and it did move for him.

So, we all took turns repairing it, learning the intricacies of gears, the mechanics of wheels, and the reasons behind the driveshaft and transmission. It was a journey of discovery, not just about the car, but about ourselves.

I never saw her again and didn’t even remember her name. But the 73 Opel, a machine that we all worked on, became a symbol of our shared experiences. It taught us not just how to fix cars, but also how to care for them. It was a Tangible reminder that love, like a car, requires constant attention and care and that sometimes, despite our best intentions, things do not always work out.