My dad bought a 1978 Pontiac Bonneville Brougham. He paid $7,000 - cash. Dad never understood car payments. Still doesn’t.
The Bonneville was luxury to us — plush red velour seats (that smell never left), electric windows!, AM radio (FM cost extra), and an 8-track.
The Bonneville sat gleaming in our driveway in central Ohio many nights that fall as the sun set over oaks with red and orange leaves. I remember the rally wheels and white walls like the back of my hand. Scrubbing those white walls clean took elbow grease and minimum two Brillo pads.
Dad was proud of that car. Then our Korean next door neighbor bought the same car. Same color. I remember Mr. Oh driving past our house the first time in his bourghony Bonneville, waving enthusiastically.
My dad may have waved. I don’t remember. But I remember when he went inside, he was seething. He couldn’t believe that the guy living next door had purchased the same car and color. It just wasn’t done; the driveway was a stage of sorts. To Dad,…
