It was the summer of 1970. I worked as a dental assistant for Doctor Edward G. Wozniak for about a year and a half. I started working for him when I was a senior in high school. My title was dental assistant, but actually, I was the entire office staff.
1970 Yellow Volkswagon
I was his chairside assistant and was responsible for developing dental X-rays decades before digital X-rays. I answered the phone, handled the billing and confirmed appointments, cleaned the dental office and the waiting room, sterilized dental tools, and sometimes babysat his two young children. It wasn’t unknown for me to take his car for a tune-up.
I worked a split shift. I didn’t get home until 9:30 at night, and then I would have to be back first thing in the morning by 8 a.m. I worked five and a half days a week. I made a minimum wage of $1.45 an hour for 40 hours. I didn’t get paid overtime.
I worked from eight to twelve hours, then drove home and had lunch with my parents. After lunch, I went back to work. My mother always had lunch waiting for me: a buttered bagel and lemon yogurt. Once my mother found out you liked something, she gave it to you long after you were sick. She was funny like that. Finally, I begged, “Please, Mom, no more bagels and yogurt.”
It was a vigorous work schedule, but looking back at it, I realize I enjoyed working there. Dr. Wozniak was a decent man who worked as hard and long hours as I did. He was about thirty-eight when I started to work for him, and I was almost eighteen. Even though there was a twenty-year age gap, we worked well together.
He was patient with me while I learned the job. I was quick to study and loved the fast pace and meeting new people. I enjoyed keeping the office spic and span and keeping everything orderly. I was my father’s daughter, intelligent, quiet, organized, and always on time.
I decided I needed to buy a vehicle of my own. My sister, Karen, and I had been sharing a car our father had given us. Did I mention we are Fraternal Twins? It was a beat-up Edsel, about ten years old at the time. It was my father’s car before it became ours.
Now that I think about it, my father was very generous in giving us his car. He had to purchase another car for himself. My dad had recently retired and was living on Social Security, so he must not have had much money. I guess I never really thought about that until now.
My sister and I were somewhat embarrassed driving this car because it was in pretty rough shape—let’s say it had seen better days. The trunk was banged up, and a chain held it closed. My father had glued a picture of a strawberry on it in a misguided attempt to cover up the enormous dent. He was something of a folk artist. But that is a story for another time.
The driver’s seat tended to collapse backward unexpectedly. We had to anticipate this and keep our backs straight at all times. You couldn’t lean all your weight against the back seat. You had to keep your back straight and somehow suspend it that way unless you wanted to end up in the back seat with no one driving.
At some point, I had the brilliant idea to prop an umbrella behind the seat to prevent the seatback from collapsing backward. The umbrella worked for some time until it would vibrate and, over time, fall to the right or left. I realize now that this was a dangerous and possible suicidal driving problem. At the time, I didn’t give it much thought. My sister and I never talked about it.
The other problem was that my sister and I were inexperienced at both driving and being responsible. As a result, we would often forget to turn the headlights off on our shared automobile when we arrived home. And during that first cold winter night, we repeatedly killed the battery by leaving the headlights on overnight. In 1970, lights didn’t turn off automatically when you took the keys out of the ignition.
Unfortunately, we would have to wake my father to jump the car battery. This happened quite frequently and made for some very tense mornings. My father, who worked nights, would be sleeping, and we had to wake him up. He would yell and holler and give us hell. We would promise not to do it again. But we did, and then we would have to wake him up again. It was a long learning curve for my sister and me.
We lived closer to my sister’s job than mine, and I had that two-hour break in the middle of the day. So, I would drop her off at the Mailing Services where she worked. Then, I went to my job, another ten minutes away from Collingswood, to Oaklyn, NJ.
My sister endlessly complained that I had the car more often than her. She said it was unfair and that I had always been the favorite. And sometimes she had to take customers out. I never fully understood where she took these customers and for what purpose. I probably never asked.
About this time, a friend of hers, Elaine Wharton, stopped by to visit. We went to grade school together. She taught Karen how to drive even though she had just gotten her driver’s license a few weeks before.
Elaine was driving her new car, and Karen and I were sitting on our front steps. She told us that she had just purchased a brand-new automobile. She informed us that she didn’t have to put out any money. She had financed the whole thing. We had no idea that this was possible.
My sister went to the car dealer and purchased a new car within a couple of weeks. She bought a Maverick. It turned out to be a lemon, breaking down more than it ran.
I decided to get a 1970 Volkswagen. My sister went with me to the VW Dealer since she already knew the ropes. She did all the talking. She was imbued with confidence at an early age. Confidence I didn’t develop until much later in life. The car salesman asked me, “Is she your Philadelphia lawyer?”
It turned out that I was making less money than Karen, and I had to get a co-signer. I don’t think my sister and I ever discussed our salaries. I asked my older brother, Hugh. He was a clinical psychologist, twenty years older than us. He was married, had three kids, and had two jobs. He wasn’t too thrilled about co-signing, but he did it.
The car was a 1970 lemon-yellow VW, and it was love at first sight. It had an automatic stick shift, which I had to learn how to use on the drive home from the dealer.
The car cost $2,300.00. My payments were $65.54 a month for three years. I paid it off in eighteen months because I couldn’t tolerate the idea that my brother had to co-sign for me and seemed ticked off about it.
I was so excited about this beautiful car; it was all mine. I used to get up early every day and hose it down before I went to work. My father swore that I would wash the paint off it.
My Dad was annoyed that Karen and I were only nineteen and had brand-new vehicles. And here he was, sixty-three, and never purchased a new car. That year, he bought his first new car, a Ford.
I had my yellow bug for ten years. I drove it out of NJ to Florida when I moved there. I drove that car all over Florida. And to California when we moved there when Bob attended Brooks Institute, a photography school.
I loved that car up to the day my husband, Bob, and I was involved in an accident while driving in the rain on the way to San Diego. We were going to spend Thanksgiving with his best friend, Ronnie.
We didn’t have any extra money because we were living hand to mouth. And unfortunately, the car had bald tires. There was an accident in front of us. And we skidded into the median strip. My VW was crushed in the front by the car we hit and a car in the rear. The trunk was in the front of those early VWs, and it was totaled.
When my car was towed away, I never saw it again. I cried like a baby. I cried the whole time we were visiting Bob’s friends and refused to eat anything for the three days we visited them. I’m sure he and his wife were glad when we left.
It’s a true axiom that you never truly get over your first love. Although it has been over fifty years since I lost my beautiful VW, and I have owned many cars since I have never loved one as much as I loved that yellow VW.
