They say you never forget your first.
Mine was a 1973 Chevy Vega mini-station wagon. It was tan, with a brown plaid plastic interior. The exterior was squat and featureless. Still, being butt ugly was the least of this car’s issues.
The spring of my senior year in high school, my parents told me that they were giving me a car for my graduation present. They also made it clear that they would not be taking me to college in the fall. I was on my own to move into the freshman dorm.
Though the car seemed an extravagant gift, I soon learned that my choices would be limited. My Dad, a World War II veteran, had several caveats. The car could not be German. Or Japanese. In fact, after he gave it some thought, he pronounced that it could only be American. Further, the car had to be big enough to carry all my gear to school, which ruled out most compacts. Finally, it had to be relatively cheap.
Also, we would not be ordering a vehicle. We would buy one that was already on the lot.