good fishing cars

I never really got to thank my father properly for teaching me to fish and passing down his love for American cars to me. But I bet he knows.
And the two often go hand in hand.
I know this because there is nothing greater than the smell of a musty old car that no one else sees the beauty in, except for maybe you.
Fishing, like driving, is mostly that of utility. Now, my dad had some nice cars. family cars, most of them, but still lurking under the hood was a V8. There is no better motor than a Chevy 350, he'd tell me.
He's right, and to this day to boot.
Here is a list of cars my dad had since I can remember (which means from birth until I was 26, the age I was when he left for Heaven).
• Chevy Impala. This one was enormous, with the round taillights and the blue vinyl seats to match the exterior. Four door. Four of my sisters in the back, and I was anything but wedged between my parents in the front.
In fact, there was all sorts of elbow room.
My dad would drive with his arm around me or on top of the seat.
He could reach back quickly to backhand anyone who was getting mouthy. It wasn't that big a car, after all.
• Chevy Impala. He liked the last one so much, he bought another one. This one in green.
Mind you, none of the cars he bought were brand new. At least not until the girls grew up and moved out on their own, but we'll get to that in a minute.
• Chrysler Newport. For some reason, my dad ad a serious lapse in judgment, and he bought this land shark of an ugly car. It looked straight off "The Brady Bunch," and it might have been. It made the Impalas look like Volkswagens. It was copper-tan with a black interior that would take the skin right of you on a hot summer day. Here's what I remember most about it: My mom leaving me in the car in the middle of an intersection while she found a pay phone or a house phone to call for help. The Newport broke down again, she'd say. She hated that car, she told me.
• Chevy Malibu Laguna. My dad tricked my mom here. This one had the 350 package in it, the white stripes on the sides (over the wheel wells) and it had a snazzy blue interior. He would argue that it was, in fact, a family car, simply because it had four doors. I don't think she ever really bought it; my mom liked big cars, not small ones. I loved it, and this car sparked my love affair with them, especially American muscle cars.
• Chevy Caprice Classic. Mom won. And this was their first new car. I remember it well: two-tone blue, with spoked hubcaps and a cloth interior, AM-FM Cassette, AC and cruise control. It was a '79 in the same year — that never happened in the Passante household, nor would it every again. It was my mom's favorite car, and she told me so just a few years ago.
This was the first (Passante) car on which I learned to drive (Truth is, Uncle Richard forced me to learn to drive by putting me in behind the wheel of a '72 Buick station wagon roughly the size of New Hampshire. It was Buffalo, he was quite occupied with boat repairs and the paint store was only a couple miles away... I had no license. I was 15.) It's also the first time I learned that 350s were really fast. But God has forgiven me for that, I'm fairly sure. I'll tell Dad over a beer in Heaven someday. We'll laugh about it (I pray).
• Volkswagen Jetta diesel. Why my dad bought this was sort of beyond me. But I was wicked happy about it. See, I was into a huge VW phase as I bought my first car (a VW Dasher, bumble bee yellow and black with a four speed). My sister, Michelle, also bought a Dasher (her's was red). So my dad, thinking he needed a second car, plunked a few bills on the table for this used car. And he fell in love with it. So much that when he came to his senses that he and Mom didn't need two cars, what with all my sisters out of the house and me with my own ride, they sold the... wait for it... the Caprice.
Go figure.
• The VW did well for a few years, but I think my mom was underwhelmed, being the big-car gal that she was. So one day, my dad went out and bought a Chrysler LeBaron (back to the Chrysler brand, for whatever reason. At least he can say he never owned a Ford). This car was barely used, but used, and in beautiful shape. Cloth, 8 eight-speaker Bose system, electric everything. It was the two-door version, and it was sporty. So much, in fact, that Dad took to wearing leather driving gloves (the kinds with the holes in the knuckles). It was a nice ride, Chrysler or not.
Dad passed while owning the Chrysler, and it had a few years on it, so Mom gave it to me for something like $800, and I can't remember now if I actually ever paid that debt. Probably not. At the time, I was driving my sister's refrigerator-white VW Fox. A car designed for the Third World, it barely kept the pace of American driving. It was a death trap, and she'd often have dreams of dying in it. (I don't know how these things ever passed inspection. Think Yugo with a thicker bumper.)
I did too. Because after a while, there were no brakes, no accelerator, and there were always antifreeze fumes coming from the heater ducts that put a silt on the windows and dashboard, which leads me to believe that's why I battled a bout with cancer some years later. Come to think of it, so did she. I should call the pizza guy I sold it to. I sincerely hope he's well.
But there's one car I've failed to mention. I'm not sure what year it was, but when Dad bought the LeBaron, he, not long after, bought an old station wagon — It was the Oldsmobile version on the Chevy Caprice, and I guess that made it a Delta 88. It was creme colored with wood on the sides. It had a vinyl interior and an AM radio. He bought it from a buddy of his named Charlie Circle, I kid you not.
Mom didn't know what to think of it. Dad buffed it up, polished the "wood" and Armor-Alled the tires. There were four unmatched hubcaps on four unmatched tires. It was a beautiful car.
Not that it was, but it served this great purpose. It got him from Point A to Point B, but if Point B was to the dump, the fishing hole, or do my grandfather's house in Utica, what with the lawnmower in the back, then it was the perfect car. In essence, he didn't have to worry if it smelled bad after fishing or hauling some lawn clippings, or if the mower spilled a drop of oil or gas. He didn't have to keep it washed (but he did), and my mom would never ride in it.
It was HIS car, plain and simple. No one wanted it, no one would steal it or vandalize it. His kids didn't want to borrow it. He had nothing to prove in it. It was the perfect car. It did everything he wanted it to do. It was a sanctuary of sorts. It was full of hopes and dreams.
It was my least favorite car of his, and he knew that. That was A-OK with him. Ironically, I was in college far away from home when my Honda bought the farm. I needed a car in a pinch, and Dad drove the wagon up to Plattsburgh and let me borrow it for as long as I needed.
Luckily, I didn't need it more than a couple of weeks. I bought a Subaru. It had four-wheel drive. And I drove the wagon back to Rome, where he was happy to be reunited with it.
But, it was funny. When driving it, I felt like a total geek. Like I was driving my dad's car. I was, after all. But it was comforting. Once you resign to understanding the beauty of utility, well, it hits you. That utility is a beautiful thing. I guess that's the reason so many Volvos were sold in the '80s and '90s. Bordering on status, but, damn, they were humble boxes.
Today, I drive an old Blazer. Not old enough, of course, but maybe some day it will be.
I don't know what year it is, and that doesn't bother me at all. I sold my old pickup just before my boy was born, thinking I'd have to cart him around to daycare. My wife decided to stay home, so I really didn't need to sell it after all.
That's okay, though; it was sort of a single man's car. But it oozed practicality. Much like the Blazer does. Sure, on a good day, when the black paint is washed and the steel rims are polished, it's a fairly good-looking ride. For me, though, it's a way to hope, of days ahead. Of trips into the woods, down old logging trails. Of camping in the back, maybe, the kayaks on the roof or the pop-top camper attached to its hitch. It's a truck that will get Robyn and Kostyn, as well as the dog, back and forth to the mountain cabin or to the sandy beach, where I don't much care how many pounds of sand build up in its rug.
And I can haul stuff in it. Stinky stuff, too. Such as fish and bait and smelly old waders.