After a rather harrowing winter, which included a case of vertigo and a city-wide
The first time I turned the ignition, it screeched like a seagull, harsh and unrefined to the outside world. But to me, it sang. That sound transported me back to my childhood—to the front bench seat of my family’s blue 1969 Dart, sandwiched between my parents. I could smell the lingering tobacco from the ever-present ashtray, hear the reactive static of AM radio, and feel the reassuring slap of an adult-sized arm across my chest at sudden stops. It wasn’t just a car; it was a time capsule of a life that no longer existed.
Some people travel for adventure, but I prefer to putter along below the speed limit in cars I’ve collected over the years. Not for profit, mind you, but for the experience, the nostalgia, the chase. Over the years, I’ve cycled through countless vehicles, but I’ve always been drawn to three brands: honda, Volkswagen (VWAPY) and Chrysler. And by Chrysler, I don’t mean the modern, tech-laden versions. I mean the rough-and-tumble Dodge and Plymouth cars from before 1976, when the Big Three ruled the American roads.
I’ve always had a soft spot for the Dodge Dart. It was reliable, unpretentious and ubiquitous enough that Chrysler sold the outgoing ’76 model alongside its replacement, just to ease the transition. More than two million Darts hit the streets between 1963 and 1976, and even now, survivors abound. When I spotted a white 1974 Dart Custom on Facebook Marketplace, just an hour away from me, I knew I had to have it.
The seller was frustratingly elusive, answering messages sporadically over several months. But that only made the chase more thrilling. I imagined myself behind the wheel, rolling down memory lane. When we finally struck a deal, I promised him that “Barry White,” as he had named the car, was going to a good home. I arranged for transport back to my house in Richmond, knowing full-well that Barry wasn’t road trip-ready. I don’t mind a project, but getting stranded on I-95 is a nightmare I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
When Barry arrived two days later, I wasted no time sharing the news with my four siblings. Their reactions flooded in: “OMG I WANT IT.” “I’ll pay to have it repainted blue to make this REAL for all of us!” “Get it fixed up so Mary can broadside it like she did our old Dart!” It was as if our childhood car had been resurrected. To complete the time warp, I placed an old brass ashtray, “Yellow Feather,” our family’s good luck charm, in Barry’s glovebox, just as it had lived in Betsy, our original Dart.
Despite his age and ailments, Barry had presence. The moment I sat in the driver’s seat, I was transported to the past. The interior wasn’t the soulless gray of so many modern cars; it was blue, an actual color. The turn signals emitted a cartoonish “blink-blonk,” slowing as the car idled. The wipers, too, seemed to struggle at a standstill, as if the entire electrical system depended on forward motion. And that starter! No Chrysler of this era ever sprang to life gracefully. It labored and whined before settling into the rhythmic hum of the legendary Slant-6 engine.
I sent Barry straight to my mechanic. “Looks good,” I told him, “but the vital signs are iffy. Irregular heartbeat, occasional code blue, definitely needs new shoes.” Unlike modern cars, where problems are often hidden behind expensive sensors and control modules, Barry’s ailments were simple, mechanical and fixable.
While Barry awaits his mechanical revival, I’ll tool around in my daily driver, a 2025 Honda Civic Hybrid, which I’ve nicknamed Trooper. They’re similar in size and color, but that’s where the comparisons end. Trooper is a quiet, efficient appliance, brimming with safety features and self-awareness. Barry, on the other hand, doesn’t care about your welfare. There’s no backup camera; just turn your head. No adaptive cruise control; prepare for leg cramps. The seat belts, revolutionary for 1974, at least let you lean forward. But beyond that, your safety is your responsibility.
I like to imagine Barry and Trooper having a conversation in the driveway, the old-timer ribbing the fresh-faced rookie. Barry might scoff at Trooper’s cautious, eco-friendly existence, while Trooper could marvel at Barry’s complete disregard for efficiency or modern comforts. But when it comes down to it, Barry has something Trooper never will: a soul intertwined with my past.
Keeping this Dart isn’t just about owning another car. It’s about preserving a piece of my family’s history, a connection to my parents and my siblings, and the years when a simple drive was an adventure. If my parents were here today, they’d probably shake their heads and chuckle, recognizing their old car in a new form.
I don’t know how long I’ll keep Barry, but I suspect I’m in it for the long haul. Some cars are more than just transportation—they’re memory machines. And this one? This one doesn’t care about the future. It’s here to remind me where I came from.
(Except for the headline, this story has not been edited by PostX News and is published from a syndicated feed.)
