Living just off the Greybull Highway, I get to see lots of traffic.  Some days there isn??™t much going on, but other times the road is bustling with activity.  I see them all:  old cars, new cars, vans, jeeps, RV??™s, Humbees, motorcycles, and eighteen-wheelers.  Back and forth they zoom by, and in every color imaginable. 

Today while sitting under the willows in the back yard I saw a 57' Chevrolet rumble past.  Aqua and white - just like the one my uncle had when I was a kid.  It brought a smile to my face, and I couldn??™t help thinking about an old falcon I once owned.  It was my very first car, and was I ever proud of it.

Ordinarily, guys are the ones who get all sentimental and misty-eyed when thinking about their first vehicle.  And, for some reason, first cars - the older models anyway - were lovingly dubbed.   I have often heard old clunkers affectionately bestowed with such feminine names as "Old Bessy," "Bertha," or even "Effie May," - as in, "Effie may, but then again, she may not," a once favorite uttering before undertaking a long journey.  Well, my first car was a "Freddie."

Freddie was a light brown 1963 Falcon two‑door.  I acquired him when I was 24 years-old, and living in Maine.  He was a long time in coming, and when come ‑ essential.  As a newly relocated single parent, I had two preschool aged sons and two jobs, but  no wheels,

Shunning an abusive marriage and moving half way across the state for a fresh start, I'd expected to encounter new challenges.  What I didn??™t expect was how nearly impossible it would be to fulfill work and parental duties without collapsing from sheer exhaustion simply because I didn't own a vehicle.  And, because I didn??™t receive court ordered child support, I couldn??™t afford to get one.

The year following my move,  my father made an offer to secure a second hand car for me if I??™d make small monthly payments on it.  I immediately agreed!  A short time later, I received a telephone call saying the perfect car had been found.  Since my parents lived nearly three hundred miles away, delivery was delayed until the end of the month.

The next few weeks of waiting were excruciating.  Finally, the day arrived.  After a three-hour vigil with my face pressed firmly against the living room window, I was rewarded by the sight of a beautiful light brown car - albeit a seasoned veteran.  It pulled up to the curb outside my apartment and stopped.  I finally had my own vehicle!

When I rushed outside to greet my new companion, Dad made a big production of lifting the hood.  Standing back with arms extended as though presenting a grand prize, he gushed with unmistakable pride, "Just look at that motor!"

I stood, staring in bewildered silence.  All I could see was what appeared to be "wreckage???:

Wires and hoses crisscrossed recklessly over a round flat "thingy" in the middle, connected to a lot of other paraphernalia ‑ like belts, knobs, hoses, and fan blades that stuck out in silly places. 

To make matters worse, dad proceeded to bend over the motor to  identify  various parts - using terms totally foreign to me.  I was horrified!  What did I care what those greasy little twisted metal parts and old dusty hoses were called?  I'd waited 24 years for this moment, and it was being ruined! 

I wanted to stop all this nonsense and get down to the real business at hand!  I wanted to climb in the seat and view the world from inside my very own car.  I wanted to check the interior, run my hands over the upholstery, turn on the radio and see how the speakers sounded.  In other words, I wanted to get to know Freddie Falcon intimately!

Over the course of that first year Freddie and I shared a love affair few understood.  He was a blessing!  In time I  became a little more knowledgeable about cars: The "thingy with the pulley" turned out to be a fan belt, and "the little gadgets over there" were spark plugs. 

I stopped kicking tires and filling the radiator whenever Freddie sputtered but refused to start.  And, I came to realize rocking frantically back and forth while wrenching the key in the ignition and grinding my teeth wouldn't rev Freddie to life once he decided to sleep in on cold mornings.  I learned to respect Freddie's unique personality.

Despite minor mechanical problems, Freddie Falcon was a lifesaver.  He eased hardships and helped liberate me.  I gained confidence, and simple chores were kept simple.  He provided fun family rides and inexpensive trips to the beach, as well as other outings I otherwise wouldn't have been able to provide for myself and young children.

Yes, the year of 1977 with my little falcon was a good one.  And, my association with Freddie proved one of the most satisfying male gender relationships I??™d experienced up to that point. 

A ringing telephone jerked me abruptly out of the nostalgic yesteryear revere.  I was back in Emblem, Wyoming, and the year was 2004.   Rushing inside the house to answer the phone, I wondered if I??™d ever told my husband about Freddie, or if he realized just what a tough act he??™d had to follow.

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