Crouching down low with skeptical eyes and a furrowed brow, my dad is five minutes into a rigorous inspection when he finds a flaw. “Here,” he announces, dragging the palm of his hand across the rear fender. “The paint doesn’t match up.” It’s like watching a cadaver dog start digging in the woods; I know he’s about to crack this case wide open. Dad shifts around the lot of the car dealership to find better lighting. I’m beside him, jacked up on adrenaline like a cop who knows this dog is about to get them a promotion. “We’re not buying this car—it’s been in an accident, and someone’s trying to hide it.”
Everything I know about cars, I learned from my dad. He spent many weekends during my childhood lying on the driveway underneath the family car, swearing about a faulty starter or worn-out spark plugs. To save money, my dad fixed our cars himself. He’s also adept at spotting bad body work—his scrutinizing eye has sussed out many a lemon. Dad is a proud disciple of Chevrolet, preferring its “bread-and-butter” approach to the automobile: reliable, affordable products that perform well, look good, and are easy to fix. Over the years, my dad has owned a Chevy pickup; a conversion van for school carpool; an Impala SS, and—his baby—a 1974 Corvette Stingray that he still cruises around in when the weather’s nice. In total, we’ve owned a dozen Chevrolet products, deviating from the brand only once, which was an unmitigated disaster.
Once the kids started driving, it was Chevys for us and nothing else. For one thing, we couldn’t argue with the results: During a joyride in his car, my brother got the RPMs up so high doing donuts that the fan flew out of the front end. After a quick repair, it ran like nothing happened. My sister hated oil changes and never met a curb she didn’t love to hit. We started a cleaning business out of her Chevy Cavalier, and it never faltered. (My dad taught me how to do an oil change on that very Cavalier; when I look back, I think it was the only oil change it ever received.) She also routinely ran it out of gas, but as soon as the tow truck driver filled it back up, she’d smirk as the car fired up right on cue. Our cars always did what we asked them to do, and we asked them to weather our stupidity many, many times.
When it came to buying cars, my dad was the only expert whose opinion I sought. Shortly after he retired, I needed a car and handed him the assignment. “I’m not ready to buy right now, but you know my style and budget, so see what’s out there.” A few weeks later, we were driving home from dinner when he took a detour. “I want you to see this car I’ve been looking at online.” I saw it and immediately told him to pull into the lot. Staring me right in the face was my dream car: a 2005 Monte Carlo SS. It was supercharged, black with silver accents and had the signature five-star wheels that I loved. Though more than ten years old, it had low mileage and was in perfect condition, right down to the leather driver’s seat, a spot known for wear and tear. I asked the salesman if I could put a deposit down; forty minutes later, I drove it off the lot. My dad was stunned. I was not prone to impulsive decisions. In fact, before he even showed me, he asked for my sister’s opinion. She told him in no uncertain terms, “Taylor may not be ready to buy a car, but she IS ready to buy THAT car.”
My history with Monte Carlos started during college. My sister and I were commuters, and my dad was on the hunt for a car we could share. He chose a 1987 Monte Carlo. It was nearly twenty years old and was NOT what we had in mind. We were well into the iPod era, but this car only had a tape deck. But, it was within our budget, in perfect condition, and—most importantly— was sturdy enough to handle my sister’s abuse. Knowing our reservations about driving an older car, my dad smartly deluged us with the history of the Monte Carlo and its long pedigree as the winningest car in NASCAR. He even took us to a few races to keep up the hype. At school, I’d walk to the student lot in a group, and I learned quickly to shore up my car knowledge because classmates always asked questions: what size motor, is it a V8, is it fun to drive? (305, yes, and yes.) Soon, I began to covet the Monte Carlo SS, which I found to be sporty, sleek, and not too flashy. I daydreamed about owning one someday.
That day came a lot sooner than I expected, and the 2005 Monte was the best car I ever owned. When I was traveling, I missed driving it. If I had writer’s block, I found that sitting in the car was a comforting place to write. I spent so much time in it that my friends referred to it as my “living room.” It took me back and forth to Canada to visit my nieces and nephews, and was a great distraction when I was between jobs. But, as it approached its twentieth year, things started to break, and it was time for something new. The Monte Carlo didn’t get much trade-in value, but that wasn’t the point. In all the thorough education I got from my dad about cars, he had the same refrain: “A car is a terrible investment, and it depreciates as soon as it leaves the lot. Its true value lies in how much you love the car.”
This article originally appeared in the July/August 2025 issue of (585).
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