A decade ago I anxiously called my brother with news. “I sold the Mustang,” I reported. “I can’t believe you kept it this long,” he replied. The 1964 1/2 Mustang found its way into my possession when Dad bought it back from my older brother and gave it to me. Married with a baby on the way, he needed a bigger car and I had just turned 16.

In 1961 Lee Iacocca, Vice President of Ford Motor Company, envisioned what would become the Mustang, an automobile industry phenomenon. The first Mustang rolled off the line on March 9, 1964. The first cars were released for sale on April 17, 1964 and Ford sold 22,000 Mustangs the first day. The two body styles, convertible and coupe, came with several options for the interior, exterior and engine size. By the end of April one year later, over 400,000 units had been sold.

White Fang, as I affectionately named it, was bare bones; Dad had paid less than $2,000 for the auto brand new. This was one hand-me-down that I was thrilled to have. The exterior was white, the interior was red and with a 6-cylinder engine, it was not a muscle car. The three-speed stick shift was not synchronized, making it difficult to change gears smoothly to avoid the telltale grinding noise. With a stiff clutch, it was not the easiest machine for a 16-year-old girl to drive. But, drive it I did, for over 30 years.

I carpooled to school my sophomore year with two neighborhood boys that were juniors and could drive. My parents paid them to take me to school and back every day. They made fun of me and teased me the entire year. Bob and Jim never cared if we were late, so we often were. They laughed uproariously as I dropped books and papers, scrambling to get to first period before the tardy bell rang. When I got THE MUSTANG and resigned from the car pool, the boys were stunned. I gloated, no longer dependent on them for transportation. Having a 3-year-old Mustang coupe, I thought I was cool! Actually, Bob and Jim finally thought I was cool, too.

Unfortunately, the red and white pony car was easy to spot. My friend and I skipped one day of high school in the spring of 1968.

“I thought I saw Jan and Lisa heading away from school this morning,” announced our Spanish teacher to the class when we did not answer roll call. “Surely it wasn’t them in that little Mustang.”

White Fang faithfully escorted me through college and many late night pizza runs. It did not take long to learn that the lightweight Mustang was not stable on ice and snow. Four or five girls would hop in, weigh it down and off we would go for a double cheese pizza with the heater blasting away the winter chill.

“Take the Mustang; it’s yours,” my father instructed one day as I prepared to move to California to join my new husband. Not wanting me to drive halfway across the country alone, Mom came along for the ride. Who would have thought that the mother-daughter road trip would be memorable because of a downpour in Arizona, an unscrupulous mechanic and a set of windshield wipers that decided not to work in the rain?

White Fang got a face lift in the late 1970s after we moved back to Texas. It was showing its age and needed an engine overhaul. The carpet, upholstery and dash were replaced so the interior was spiffed up and looked new. The shop that restored the car also was proud of their paint job, and I teared up when they lead me out to the garage to see it. Driving White Fang continued through another milestone, being a single adult once again. The odometer read well over 100,000 miles, but we were still truckin’.

Years later, one of the last long hauls the Mustang made was with me and my dog in the front seat, my parrot in the back seat and the trunk full of wedding presents. We followed the moving van with my furniture on to the next adventure, living and working in East Texas.

The absence of air conditioning, the poor acceleration, the manual windows, the AM radio and the lack of power steering all lost out to the newer automobiles with user-friendly conveniences. Subsequently, White Fang rested in a covered garage, driven only on weekends for short in-town trips with my sporty new spouse. Over time, my classic Mustang became more of an ornament than an asset.

When my husband purchased a Corvette, he suggested his dream car replace the Mustang in the garage. He reasoned that the Corvette’s value was greater and the Mustang could sit in the driveway where his truck had been for years. In all fairness, I had to agree.

Soon after, a couple from the Houston area approached me to buy White Fang for their teenage daughter. They were collectors and wanted her to drive it to school. The time had come for me to let my old friend go. The rationale was “It needs a lot of work.” The couple wrote me a check and drove out of the driveway and down the street as I sobbed loudly, my husband’s arm around my shoulder.

Both my brother and I grew up in that car. The Ford Mustang WAS the 60s. Memories of high school, college, marriages, trips, jobs, moves, family and friends were all facilitated by White Fang. The Mustang was a witness, a partner, a container, a vehicle for all that transpired. Often thinking of the couple and their daughter, who would be grown now, I imagine she sits in the red bucket seat. She rolls down the window and backs out of a garage; as she speeds away the wind whispers, suggesting some destination.

 

The facts in paragraph two of my essay about the Mustang are from: JC Whitney- Everything Automotive; “History of the Ford Mustang”; and www.ClassicPonyCars.com.