There's a Chevy in the family.

All my life, I've been taught to hate General Motors.

"Camaro? Pssh. Cheap piece of over-priced fiber glass," my dad would say.

"Corvettes? Yeah, they might look pretty. But they're front-heavy and spin out of control easily. See how pretty you look spinning into a tree."

"Firebirds? Are you a redneck?"

So, naturally, when Dad showed me a photo of the '66 Corvair that he recently purchased, I was a little shocked. So shocked, it took me over a week to come to grips with reality.

My dad is a hypocrite.

He adopted a dirty Chevy. My new sister* is a product of GM.

We're a Mopar family. We're a Ford family. We can appreciate vehicles of the European persuasion. But we'd never spend hard-earned cash on a Chevy.

Or so I thought.

My childhood, my teenage years, they're all a damn, dirty lie.

Because the newest hunk of metal in Dad's garage is just that, a hunk. And not a beefy, beautiful man. It's a rusty old Chevy.

... I wonder when he'll finish restoring it so I can take it out on dates.


*They're not just cars in the family. Oh, no. Each vehicle is held in as high regard as the kids. Believe me.