“I drove through the valley in a car with no name ...” I can imagine these lyrics applied to the music from pop rock group America’s famous 1970s hit to describe my recent adventures in my dad’s 1973 Oldsmobile Delta 88.

The car, purchased new by my grandfather in 1973, has a minuscule 23,444 miles on the odometer. My grandfather passed a year after buying the car and my grandmother used the car mostly to go to church, hair appointments, and the grocery store, and not much more. Now, my 93 year old dad, who no longer drives, owns the car but doesn’t want to part with it. It resides primarily in the garage.

The massive Oldsmobile was among the largest cars GM ever produced. Rivals Ford and Chrysler responded with similar huge cars, although the early 1970s Chryslers win in the size category. The B-52’s even reference one in their song “Love Shack,” comparing one to a whale — and rightfully so. Still, this particular Olds holds its own when it comes to size.

There are not many cars like the Delta 88 around anymore, which is hardly surprising since it was made 51 years years ago. I recall the opening credits of the 1980s series “Newhart” showing an Oldsmobile just like my dad’s, minus the white vinyl top, plying the back roads of Vermont. I do hope the producers truly did film the opening credits in Vermont and not some stunt-double locale in the Adirondacks or Connecticut to save on their filming budget! (I love Vermont if you can’t tell.)

The reason I have been driving the car is to take it to and from a couple of repair dates. It has been a long time since the car has had significant maintenance, and even parked in the garage, the old seals and rubber hoses dry out and fail. As mentioned previously, since my dad doesn’t drive, I have become the designated driver, something that doesn’t particularly thrill me.

My dad wants to pass the car onto me when he passes, and although I appreciate the car’s history, it just isn’t “me.” I feel self-conscious driving it each time I take it out, knowing that I am adding to the climate crisis with each mile driven. Even well tuned, one can still faintly smell the exhaust when it’s running. The brakes are nowhere near as good as a newer car, there are no airbags or ABS and there are only lap belts (although I can pull the shoulder portion down from clips in the headliner.) The steering wheel’s cross-sectional diameter is about the same diameter as my thumb — no beefy steering wheel here. No, this is not particularly a driver’s car, but it would make the perfect vehicle for a road-trip movie. And then, there is only the scratchy AM radio for distraction.

After Googling the internet, I found that 1973 Delta 88’s Rocket 350 V8 engine puts out 225 hp; by comparison, the little four cylinder in my 2022 Toyota Corolla generates just 139 hp. Still, as utilitarian and almost appliance-like as my Corolla is, I’d much rather be behind the wheel of it. It’s cute, comfy, and efficient even if it is not the most fancy or flashy. That car just says “Mariel” to me because it is practical, reliable, and good on gas.

Before someone comes and tries to make an offer, the car is firmly not for sale. My dad loves the thing, obviously for sentimental reasons, which I do understand. He even has the original bill of sale from when my grandfather, who passed when I was just nine years old. I have many memories of my grandmother behind the wheel, just the top of her head visible when she was driving. She did manage to pilot the thing without getting into any accidents — a very good thing.

I would like my dad to get rid of the car, selling it to someone who has the time and skills to work on it. While not a muscle car, I could still imagine the car at some auto show somewhere, some new owner’s pride and joy. But for now, it is my dad’s pride and joy, and if it makes him happy, I guess that is A-OK with me.

Mariel Addis is a native of Florence. She left the area for 16 years but returned in 2013.