Mine Was a $75 Buick Convertible with One Tiny Problem.
Part of The American Time Capsule — preserving the people, places, products, traditions, and everyday moments that shaped growing up in America before the digital age. This article explores the cars, highways, road trips, and adventures that made the open road part of the American dream.
Almost everyone remembers their first car.
Not because it was the nicest car they ever owned.
Usually because it wasn’t.
Your first car meant something different.
It meant freedom.
No more asking Mom or Dad for a ride.
You could go where you wanted, when you wanted—as long as you could afford the gas and insurance.
For me, that moment came in 1966 when I turned seventeen.
Of course, before freedom came the terrifying business of proving I was actually allowed to drive, an experience I remember in The Trauma of the Driver’s Test.
Mom had one rule.
If I wanted a car, I had to pay for it myself.
Insurance too.
Fortunately, I had a job.
So the search began.
The $75 Convertible
One afternoon I spotted an ad in the newspaper.
1956 Buick Special Convertible
Price:
$75.
Back then, there was no Facebook Marketplace, Craigslist, or internet search.
If a seventeen-year-old wanted a cheap used car, the newspaper classifieds were a pretty good place to start.
Even in 1966 that seemed unbelievably cheap.
I called immediately.
The owner explained there was one problem.
“The steering is frozen.”
“It’ll cost more to fix than the car is worth.”
Most people probably thanked him and hung up.
I decided to go look anyway.
Love at First Sight
When I pulled up to the seller’s house, I honestly thought there had been some mistake.
Parked along the curb was one of the prettiest cars I’d ever seen.
Turquoise and white.
A brilliant white convertible top.
Chrome everywhere.
The interior looked almost new.
The back seat was so big you could have used it as a living room sofa.
This wasn’t a $75 junker.
This was a beautiful automobile.
To a seventeen-year-old in 1966, it looked like a million dollars.
Fortunately, the seller only wanted seventy-five.
Then I drove it.
The Steering Wheel From Hell
The seller wasn’t exaggerating.
The steering wheel felt like it had been welded in place.
Turning a corner required the upper-body strength of a professional wrestler.
Parking?
That became a full-body workout.
If you were moving straight ahead, everything was fine.
The moment you needed to actually steer…
Good luck.
Young and Dumb
Looking back today, a sensible person would have walked away.
Fortunately…
Seventeen-year-olds aren’t famous for making sensible decisions.
I bought it anyway.
And I loved every minute of it.
For the next two years I drove that Buick all over town.
With the top down and a couple of friends piled into that enormous Buick, I didn’t feel like a kid who had bought a seventy-five-dollar car with broken steering.
I felt like the richest seventeen-year-old in Ferguson.
Frozen steering.
Impossible parking.
And all.
I didn’t care.
It was my car.
That huge back seat at the drive-in? Priceless!
That beast ate gasoline like a thirsty camel but fortunately gas back then was cheap at 19 cents a gallon.
I eventually sold it to my brother-in-law after I had had enough of that frozen steering problem, but I was still sorry to see it go.
When the Keys Changed Everything
The Buick wasn’t perfect.
Far from it.
But having my own car changed my world.
Late-night drives.
Cruising with friends.
Dating.
Going somewhere without asking Mom for a ride.
We also learned to find our way without GPS, call home without a cellphone, and somehow survive being unreachable for hours at a time—an era I remember in Life Before Smartphones.
Buying my own gas.
Paying my own insurance.
Learning that freedom came with bills attached.
The first set of car keys was one of those small ceremonies that told you childhood was beginning to loosen its grip.
Some Memories Never Rust
I’ve owned much nicer cars since then.
Cars with power steering.
Air conditioning.
Fuel injection.
GPS.
Backup cameras.
Heated seats.
But none of them ever felt quite like that old turquoise-and-white Buick Special Convertible.
Decades later I finally owned the kind of machine seventeen-year-old me could only have dreamed about, a very different automotive love affair I tell about in My One and Only Hot Rod.
Funny how the first car you own never completely leaves you.
Maybe it isn’t really the car we remember.
Maybe it’s the seventeen-year-old behind the wheel.
I’ve owned much nicer cars since then.
Cars with power steering.
Air conditioning.
Fuel injection.
GPS.
Backup cameras.
Heated seats.
But none of them ever felt quite like that old turquoise-and-white Buick.
Maybe that’s because your first car isn’t really remembered for the machinery.
It’s remembered for who you were when you owned it.
I was seventeen.
I had a convertible.
It cost me seventy-five dollars.
I could barely turn the steering wheel.
And I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
Maybe it isn’t really the first car we remember.
Maybe it’s the kid behind the wheel.
💬 Your Turn
Do you remember your very first car?
What was it? How much did you pay for it? Did you save for months to buy it, inherit it from your parents, or keep it running with duct tape and determination? Maybe it burned oil, wouldn’t start when it rained, had a heater that didn’t heat, or required some trick only you knew to keep it running. Every first car has a story.
Share your first car memories in the comments below. We’d love to hear what you drove, where it took you, and the adventures you still remember.
Bunker Rule
Everybody’s first car was special—even when it wasn’t. Share the rust buckets, hand-me-downs, dream cars, mechanical disasters, and teenage adventures you remember. Keep it friendly. Nobody needs to defend the questionable automotive decisions they made at seventeen.
Bunker Notice
This story is part of The American Time Capsule, preserving the everyday experiences that helped define growing up in America before the digital age. The cars may be gone, the gas stations may have changed, and seventy-five-dollar convertibles are definitely harder to find—but the freedom of that first set of keys is something many of us never forgot.