By my sophomore year (1969) I had grown tired of riding the Marshfield High School bus with all of those annoying freshmen. I needed a plan. I had spied this beautiful, jet black ’56 Chevy parked in the driveway of a home at my stop. Only thing is, it wasn’t for sale. No matter. I walked up to the door and knocked. A lady answered. I asked if I could buy her car. She smiled having been taken by surprise at this gangly 6’5” 170-pound beanpole’s question. She told me she first had to ask her husband. The plan was in motion.
Later that evening the party line call rang in. It was a miracle. I hadn’t even yet gotten permission from my parents or anything. So I flew out of the house and ran to the corner, grabbing Donny and Bruce, two of my best neighborhood pals, with $225 in hand that I had saved from picking strawberries, beans and raspberries while at my grandmother’s the summer before in Hazel Dell, Wash.
Oh, and I didn’t have a driver’s license. I was only 15. I had my buddies push the car back out of the driveway. I steered it down a slight grade, parking it curbside smack dab in front of my family’s home. I slept in the back seat that first night.
— STEVE LAIBLE