1961 Corvette and a little orange pillow continue a tradition of memories

I still remember the day my dad brought it home. It was 1978 and I was five. I really didn’t think that much of it. It was kind of different than most cars we had around, but dad bought and sold lots of cars, so this one probably wouldn’t be around long either.

But then we started using it. Every weekend my dad and I would get in the ’61 and “ride.” We’d go look at used cars, or scour junkyards, or go to the car races, sneak tacos before dinner, or get lost on purpose. I was in my first street race riding in that car. It gave me my first rides at over 100 mph on the back roads in Nebraska. My dad would tromp it sometimes just because he knew I loved getting slammed back in the seat. I know for a fact that my scrawny butt has left a mold in the passenger seat of that car, because I rode in it more than anyone else in its history—including my mom!

If we weren’t cruising we were working on it. At first I just sat on the toolbox and watched, but then I started helping out. Over the years I spent a lot of time under the pancake hood; under the dashboard; under the car. I’ll bet between my dad and me, we bled a gallon of blood out of our knuckles working on that thing.

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