go.Jimmy.go

I realize the last thing the Internet probably needs right now is another middle-aged guy waxing nostalgic about the cars he drove when he was seventeen.

But c’mon people, this is me we’re talking about. Nostalgia is pretty much what I do. And lately, I’ve been thinking about the first two cars that gave me something every teenager desperately wants: freedom.

They weren’t fast. They weren’t particularly attractive. And neither one of them would make it out of 1980s.

But man, did I love them.

The Corona

My very first car was a gray 1973 Toyota Corona station wagon. Not to be confused with the virus shall not be named.

My mom bought it for $500 at Nick’s Value Auto Sales, with some help from money I’d earned working at McDonald’s. This was the summer of 1986.

I couldn’t have cared less what kind of engine was under the hood. Four cylinders? Six? Eight? For all I knew, there were several highly motivated hamsters underneath there running on little wheels.

And judging by the way the Corona sometimes accelerated, that theory remains entirely plausible.

What mattered was that I had a driver’s license, and now I had a car.

If you’ve never experienced that combination as a seventeen-year-old heading into senior year of high school, it’s difficult to explain just how intoxicating it was. Suddenly, every trip became an opportunity to drive.

Need milk?

I’ll get it.

Someone needs something picked up at the dry cleaners?

I’m your man.

Have to travel three blocks?

Why walk when there’s a perfectly good Toyota Corona sitting outside?

Gas was cheap, I was seventeen, and as far as I was concerned, walking and bicycling had officially joined the dinosaurs.

I still remember the first morning I drove the Corona to Easton High School.

My neighbor Mike was riding shotgun as we made our way through the back roads of Easton with the windows down and Ozzy blasting from the radio. Eventually, we pulled into the upper parking lot at EAHS.

I parked, grabbed my brown-paper-bag-covered textbooks and headed toward the school.

Naturally, I made sure to acknowledge the poor unfortunate souls climbing off the yellow school buses.

I hadn’t forgotten where I came from.

Unfortunately, the Corona didn’t exactly age gracefully. By December, the headlights had stopped working for reasons neither I nor the hamsters could explain.

A few months later, the right front fender began rusting away. Fortunately, duct tape was roughly the same color as the car, which meant I had inadvertently discovered Toyota’s official 1980s body-repair system.

Then the passenger door stopped opening.

Anyone riding with me had to climb through the window like Bo and Luke Duke from The Dukes of Hazzard.

At seventeen, of course, none of this seemed particularly unusual.

It was just my car. And I loved it.

Shortly before graduation, however, the Corona was involved in an unfortunate traffic incident. Apparently, someone forgot to tell me that you’re not supposed to turn directly into oncoming traffic.

Who knew?

Someone hit me, the Corona sustained considerable damage, and eventually it became clear that my first automotive love affair had reached its conclusion.

It was time to say goodbye.

Fortunately, another car was waiting in the wings.

The Torino

Around the same time, my aunt bestowed her well-maintained 1974 Ford Torino to my brother.

My brother drove it for a while before becoming distracted by more exciting things like Mach 1 Mustangs and pickup trucks.

Eventually, in what I can only describe as an extraordinary act of brotherly trust — one he would soon regret — he handed the Torino over to me.

I loved that car.

I loved it so much that on the day I graduated from Easton High School, I actually had my picture taken standing beside it before heading off to receive my diploma.

Forget the cap and gown.

There was the Torino.

For the months that followed, that car became my trusty post-high-school steed. It carried me to the mall, around town and on late-night excursions to the Starlite Drive-In.

Life was good.

Until one night when I was driving home from the Lehigh Valley Mall with a bunch of friends.

We were on the highway just a few miles from home when suddenly there was a tremendous BANG!

A warning light appeared on the dashboard. In fact, several of them lit it up like a Christmas tree.

The Torino immediately began losing power.

For a moment, it felt like I’d run over something enormous. Fortunately, I managed to get the car onto the shoulder of the highway before the engine completely shut down.

I tried starting it again.

Nothing.

Whatever affection I’d had for the Torino disappeared almost immediately.

The next day, after the car had been towed home, my brother began investigating.

He looked under the hood.

Checked a few things.

Looked some more.

Then he turned toward me with an expression I can still see nearly forty years later. He yelled:

“WHY DIDN’T YOU EVER CHECK THE OIL?”

Oil?

OIL?!

I had been driving the car for months and the thought of checking the oil had never once crossed my mind.

Not once.

In my defense, this was 1988.

We’d put men on the moon almost twenty years earlier. Surely automotive technology had advanced enough to produce some sort of flashing light that said:

HEY, IDIOT. YOUR ENGINE IS ABOUT TO DESTROY ITSELF.

Apparently not.

There wasn’t a drop of oil left in the engine.

The engine seized and suffered catastrophic damage.

The Torino was dead.

My brother’s formerly “well-maintained” automobile sat silently on the hill outside our house until I eventually scraped together about $300 for a replacement engine.

It ran again.

But it was never quite the same.

Eventually, like the Corona before it, the Torino made its final journey to that great junkyard in the sky.

Nearly Forty Years Later…

I hadn’t thought about any of this for a while.

Then today — September 2026 — the Maintenance light came on in my 2022 Ford Bronco Sport.

And suddenly I was seventeen again.

The Corona.

The Torino.

The duct tape.

The race car access to the passenger side door.

And most importantly, my brother standing there asking me the question that has followed me through nearly four decades of car ownership:

“WHY DIDN’T YOU EVER CHECK THE OIL?”

My Bronco has nearly 50,000 miles on it.

It also has an appointment tomorrow morning.

Because I’ve learned a few things since 1988.

I know what kind of engine is in my car now.

I know where the dipstick is.

I know you’re supposed to change the oil occasionally.

And when a warning light comes on, I don’t assume it’ll eventually go away.

Some people measure maturity through marriage, careers, children and mortgages.

Me?

I measure it by the fact that when the maintenance light comes on…

I make the damn appointment!

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My new novel, “The Seventh Echo,” is available now from 
Adverse City Publishing
© 2026 James Wood