THE COLORFUL LIFE OF MON CHEVETTE, THE LITTLE COMMUTER THAT COULD

My story begins when I moved to Richmond, Virginia, to earn my degree from dental school. I was driving borrowed family cars to use; essentially whatever was available from a motley collection. One was an ancient Mercedes-Benz 220. I was fairly knowledgeable about cars and had already had a lively and intimate history when I met Marybeth. I knew she was special, and she seemed to be interested in me too, but various distractions prevented us from getting serious with each other, but by the fall of that year, things had changed, and we were practically living together. The feeling surprised me a little, but I had no doubt she was the one.

Marybeth and I had had multiple adventures with the Mercedes, including just keeping it running. As it became more aged, the only way to start the car was to push it, get it rolling, and pop the clutch in first gear. We carefully chose where we parked, and Marybeth got good at pushing it.

Then, on an April evening in 1982, our life with cars changed. I had just finished a mind-wracking study session and was walking past the library when I saw a little car approaching with someone hanging out of the passenger window. About the time I realized it was Marybeth’s friend, Pam, she yelled at the top of her lungs, “This is Marybeth’s new car!” So much for keeping a secret.

As the car pulled to a stop next to me there was Marybeth grinning at the wheel, her expression revealing the gist of the tale. Sure enough, Marybeth’s dad had bought a car for her to use to get to school and work and this was its debut. The spunky little two-door was a Chevrolet Chevette. It had pleasing copper-like paint and under the hood was a tiny four-cylinder engine. Marybeth looked great in it.

Photo: John Robinson

Marybeth’s dad, Dr. William Falls, was a no-nonsense, practical guy, certainly not one to fret over acquiring a car for family use. Bill’s five kids, Marybeth being the oldest, were becoming more involved in school activities, their part-time jobs and needed wheels. When he and his wife, Nancy, bought a car from Whitlow Chevrolet, whether for their use or that of their kids, Bill countered salesman spiels by saying, “I just want something that will get me from Point A to B.” He would invariably end up with the cheapest, simplest car on the lot. A radio was included only if the car came with one, and he had no concern whatsoever about paint color. No air conditioning, power windows, and automatic transmission were normal.

The Chevette fit the bill as the most basic car in Chevy’s lineup. The go-cart was earmarked for his oldest daughter’s use. After all, Marybeth was heading out into the world, working her way through nursing school, and Bill wanted to help her on the path to independence.

The little car immediately began to earn its keep. Aside from Marybeth’s school and work, the Chevette was loaded up for our weekend camping trips to the mountains and the sea. We carried all manner of boats and things strapped to its roof. It turned out to be a great all-purpose vehicle.

The spring break after Marybeth and her Chevette came into my life we took the car to Florida. It was packed to the gills with camping gear and a sailboard lashed to the roof. It also accommodated two additional passengers, our friend Ron, my sister Ginny and all their attendant stuff. It was a fabulous trip and the Chevette never complained.

A year and a half after Marybeth and I met, we were married. Not only did the trusty Chevette end up being our wedding getaway car, but my father-in-law officially gave it to us.

Early in our marriage we had a rusty 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser to complement the Chevette but alas it wasn’t as reliable as the little Chevy. The Land Cruiser let us down numerous times, some particularly memorable, but Mon Chevette always soldiered on.

That’s not to say that the little car was well-built and without “issues.” It wasn’t. In fact, it collected various quirks as its career advanced. First, the rear hatchback strut failed and wouldn’t hold the hatch open. Our fix was a 4-foot-long locust stick used to brace the lid open. Then the parking brake cam spring went kaput. To operate the parking brake thereafter one had to poke a finger down the narrow slot at the brake handle to finagle the cam to engage. It was hard to explain to someone how to do it.

Another endearing trait - or not so endearing - that the Chevette developed was an unbending radio volume: Full blast or nothing. Turning on the basic AM unit made the single, wimpy dash speaker jump like mad and made it impossible for occupants to hear anything else. There were always books around and we found stacking one or two on top of the speaker reduced the volume to an acceptable level.

Then there was the passenger side window. The entire glass panel would be swallowed by the door when least expected. Temporarily closing the window again required prying off the inner door panel to fiddle with the greasy mechanism. Eventually we’d reset the glass into the track and work it back up into the door frame. We got rather good at fixing it but even then, it took a while, and we were invariably anointed with grease in the process. Such was the price of self-sufficiency. The car also gained wear and tear during our time with it. Once, our friend, Mike, fixed a dent in the Chevette’s rear fender by popping it out with a toilet plunger.

Of all the trickery that Mon Chevette developed, my favorite was the way the headliner acquired a pronounced sag. It would hang down and cradle your head in an upside-down sort of way. It was almost comforting. It felt like what I imagine the Pope might feel under his righteous headgear. When the fabric reached the point where it was getting in our eyes, I pulled it down the rest of the way. With that one quick movement I transformed not only the appearance of the interior but the ambiance and acoustics.

The summer after I finished dental school, we drove the Chevette all over the western States, living out of its cramped confines for a month and feeling at one with the car. Finally coming home involved an interminable drive from Yosemite Valley, stopping only for gas and restrooms. The little vehicle was like a loyal friend always looking after our best interests. We, for our part, took it all for granted.

We finally wore out the Chevette sufficiently to pass it on to a new home. Our newspaper delivery guy became its owner. That may have spelled the end of the Chevy’s life with us, but I bet its adventures continued until there was nothing left of it but a smudge in a driveway. As Neil Young sang about another old car, “With your chrome heart shining in the sun, long may you run.” Godspeed, Mon Chevette!

2024-04-11T17:13:08Z dg43tfdfdgfd