Ah yes, the old game of "Annoying Mom with one's choice of motor vehicles". Never will I forget the day when I had saved back $500 and announced I wished to replace my '74 Mercury which had been rear-ended to death by a less-experienced motorist.
My mom, bless her heart, must have been expecting me to bring home something practical like maybe a Valiant or Cordoba or (Gads!) maybe even a Pacer.
I drove home in a '76 Camaro with a 350 4-bolt main and twin Holly double-pumps and duel exhausts with Cherry bombs. That car sounded like a menace to society, and like every parents nightmare. As I drove it home, I thought I'd gotten a real deal on a decent fixer-upper. But as I pulled in the drive, rumbling like a beer keg full of thunder, my mom was on the front walk with a look of abject horror as she realized I was the one behind the wheel and this "THING" was being parked in our drive, and it now belonged to me.
A couple years of work had it looking very nice with a fresh few coats of jet black paint. And with time, Mom even consented to ride in it sometimes. Funny: my Grandma who grew up in the roaring twenties LOVED that old Camaro. She thought it was "snazzy"!
