Blue Bomber

It was a 1969 Buick Electra 225.  My father first bought it as a second car in the early 1970's so my mother wouldn't drive the brand new Cadillac, which he wanted to keep all shined up and sleek in the garage, when she was running errands or bringing us to school or driving 2 towns over to see her mother or one of her sisters.  She didn't like the Buick; it was big and clunky and used.  She drove it resentfully.  “The Cadillac just suits me better,” my mother told my father to no avail.  Since my father had a truck that he drove to work, the Cadillac remained in the garage unless the four of us went somewhere as a family or my parents went out to dinner. The old Buick sat, dull and bulky and utilitarian, in the driveway.

As soon as I passed my driver's test (on my second attempt)  in 1973, my mother passed the Buick along to me.  She would drive it occasionally, but I was definitely the excuse why she needed to drive the Cadillac. “Sherry has to go to work,” she would tell my father. Or, “Sherry needs the Buick because she is staying after school and there won't be a bus for her to take home.” I didn't care. I loved The Blue Bomber.

Maybe it was because it was my first car; maybe it was because I was one of the few among my friends who had a car at her disposal.  But I think it was more than that.  It represented a heady freedom for a 16 year old small town girl. I could climb into the car, turn the key in the ignition and go. Just go. My mother’s only requirements for use of The Blue Bomber were that I wait in the long 1970’s gas lines that stretched for blocks to fill the tank, drive my younger sister around when she needed a ride, and and go into town to grab a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread at Cumberland Farms. 

The Bomber had a dull bluish-gray patina with light blue cloth seats that scratched the top of my legs whenever I drove wearing shorts.  A bench seat that stretched from side door to side door was in the front as well as the back.  No seat belts of course, so on Friday nights we could fit 4 girls in the back seat and 4 in the front.  Each of the four doors was heavy and wide, with over-sized gleaming silver handles and a button to push in order to tug the door open.  The Bomber had a huge blue steering wheel that loomed  over the top of the dashboard. I can still feel the individual ridges on the underside of that wheel, where I fit my fingers. Fins on the back, not too big, but fins nonetheless.  

The AM push button radio was always set to WRKO 680, as we blasted the music and sang along with Elton John, Carly Simon, and Stevie Wonder. My love of driving began with the Bomber as did the feeling of freedom whenever I climbed behind that wheel, knowing that I could, if I wanted, go and do anything. That sensation reoccurred a few years later as I was driving away from my very short first marriage, my stick shift Toyota Corona packed to the gills and me belting out Donna Summer tunes.

I learned how to change a tire when I had the Blue Bomber.  I was working at Jordan Marsh in Framingham's Shoppers World and came out at the end of my shift to find a flat tire.  I called Uncle Ronnie, who lived nearly and knew cars.  He came right away but refused to merely change the tire. I changed; he directed, stepping in when more than my 16 year old brute force was needed. I bragged endlessly about how I could change a tire when, in fact, that was the first and last time I actually did so. One winter night that same year, I gripped the Bomber's over-sized steering wheel, its heavy backside swishing menacingly from side to side, all the way up the steep hill heading into town during a heavy snow storm.  

I drove the Bomber to Pete's Market, located one town over, renowned school-wide for selling Michelob Seven's and Boone's Farm wine to the 16 and 17 year old set.  We would always send Janet in because she looked the oldest, was the prettiest and flirtiest, and she always succeeded.  One night we sent Teresa in first; then Janet after Teresa was rejected. When Janet returned with the bottle of Tango and bag of ice, she told us how the store clerk mentioned that “some underaged kid was just in trying to buy beer.  Can you believe that?” Often, after the trip to Pete’s, we would head to the lake and bring our drinks and snacks to the sandy beach.

On Friday nights, I drove the Bomber through the center of town, stopping at the only traffic light, where we would throw open those heavy doors and all eight of us would run around the stopped car in what we called a Chinese Fire Drill. We would drive around and around town for hours, waving and honking at other cars full of kids, virtually the only entertainment available in our small, small town.  We thought nothing of racing down the winding back roads, speeding up to go over one “Victor's Bump” named for a heave in the road in front of Victor Bunde's house.  Seatbeltless, we all careened into the air, squealing with delight. We were free and invincible.

On hot summer mornings, we piled beach blankets, towels, cokes and chips into the Bomber’s cavernous trunk and took off up Route 128 to Crane's Beach, with all of the windows rolled down and singing along to the radio at the top of our lungs. Everyone pitched in $1 for gas and it was always enough. We baked in the sun, came home with scorching sunburns and couldn't wait to do it again the next week.

Now, over 40 years and many cars later, there is a core group of 4 of us from those teen aged days who get together and go away for a weekend every year. We've been to Manhattan, Provincetown, Newport, Portland. Of course, I always drive. Felicia always hands over a dollar for gas. Everyone buckles her seat belt.  As we sit on a beach or go for a hike or visit a museum, the Blue Bomber comes up in conversation. We remember, then we marvel that no one got hurt. Or arrested. And how we would have killed our children if they behaved as we did. When we remember high school and boyfriends and bad behavior, the Blue Bomber looms large, as a character in every story, in every memory.