Memories of the Pony express
Iremember it like it was yesterday: standing in my neighbour’s gravel driveway, haggling with him over the price of his rusted blue Hyundai Pony.
“How much do you want for it?” I asked trepidatiously.
“How much is it worth to you?” my neighbour deadpanned.
“I dunno,” eighteen-year-old me mumbled. “How much are you willing to take?”
“How much do you have?” he responded.
The pressure was on. “Um ... ah ... one hundred dollars?!?” I blurted.
“Done,” he said. And, just like that, I was suddenly the proud owner of an immobile import with a hole in the floor so big, hay had grown up through the gap.
Undaunted, I returned home beaming. Soon I was back, with my grandpa in tow. Hooking the Hyundai by chain to Grandpa’s Massey Harris tractor, we pulled the Pony back to our barn.
Weeks passed as Grandpa and I worked on that old jalopy — patching holes, replacing parts. Actually, my grandpa did the work. I mostly passed him tools.
Finally, the day came for the Pony to leave its corral. With Grandpa watching stoically, and with my granny peeking from her kitchen window, I inserted the key into the ignition. A single chug sputtered into three, and suddenly, with a belch of exhaust fumes, my liberator roared to life. Elation! No longer would driving be contingent upon parental permissions.
With Grandpa grinning and Granny cheering, I guided my chariot out of their yard. My future was an open road — and destiny was my destination.
I’ve seen a lot of kilometres since then, both literally and figuratively. But nothing has dimmed the memories of my first car. I suspect that many readers will share this sentiment. Since their invention in the late 1800s, automobiles have helped to define the lives of generations of Canadians.
In “Car Nation,” historian Dimitry Anastakis explores our automotive love affair — and he asks whether the honeymoon may soon be over thanks to rising greenhouse-gas emissions.
Elsewhere in this issue, we explore the legacies of two groundbreaking women: African-Canadian contralto Portia White, who wowed international audiences during the early twentieth century, and Grace Annie Lockhart, the first woman in the British Empire to earn a bachelor’s degree. Finally, we spare a few pages for the scandalous tale of a Scottish scammer who almost sparked a war between Manitoba and Minnesota.
As for my poor old Pony? I put it out to pasture years ago. Today it’s likely rusting in some forgotten junkyard, grass growing once more through its floor. But in my mind’s eye it’s gleaming. Frozen in time, it is forever tied with memories of my grandpa, who passed away twenty- five years ago. And what I wouldn’t give to turn back life’s odometer and spend just one more afternoon with him, tinkering on that old car.