It’s 10:38pm and 45 degrees outside, and I just got finished washing a Volvo. Not a V60, a T-5R, or a 960 with a swapped American V8 under the hood a la the late Paul Newman… No, I just finished washing a plain old 1965 122s. Though this Volvo is literally 50 years old, it is certainly in better condition than many humans I know, for it has been lovingly cared for by its two owners over the years. That is not to say that it is perfect… As a matter of fact, the more one looks at it, the more imperfections one finds, but, to me, that is what makes Volvos of this vintage so alluring.
Before I continue, I feel compelled to point out that my father has a Volvo with the same model year as the one I am discussing. He has owned that car since he purchased it as a new car the year it was built (his is a 544 Sport, but there are many similarities between these two models). When I was born, it was the “old” car in our household, and my father took pride in driving it everywhere. I distinctly remember him going out of his way to meet my mother and me at certain destinations when we could have ridden together, but him driving separately just so he could hang his arm out of his driver side window. And, hang his arm out that window he did. While listening to the mindlessly boring (to me) KKHI FM station, on cold, foggy mornings, he’d occasionally take me to school with me freezing in the passenger seat–begging him to roll his window up. I soon learned that he’d never roll that damn window up, and I began to dress a bit warmer when I knew I’d be riding with him to school if the fog was heavy when I woke up in the morning. I really didn’t have much fondness for that car back then… To me, it was just an old Volvo that I rarely saw anyone else driving on the street, even in our city (Berkeley, California) that was home to what seemed like thousands of Volvos of all ages. It was that “humpback red car” that was synonymous with my father.
As the years passed, many great memories were made in that car, and it is the connection between the car I just caressed with soapy water and my father’s vessel that has intensified whatever fondness I have for the sedan that’s resting in my garage tonight. This one, in its own right, also has great stories to tell. It was owned consecutively by a pair of best friends over the course of half a century, and only death was strong enough to temporarily deliver it to me as an usher to the next owner. Just as the Laguna Seca bumper sticker and glass pack muffler on my father’s car hint at a flavorful backdrop, so do the “Volvo Club of France” emblem and the “World War II Veteran” front license plate on the 122 I’ve been driving around Atlanta. It will soon belong to another person who will be the recipient of loving eyes and countless stories every time he or she is seen with the car, but until then, I’ll enjoy the naturalness of hanging my elbow out of the driver’s side window every time I go anywhere in this old Volvo that reminds me so much of my old man.
