My ’69 Corvette was a dream fulfilled

I saw my first Corvette in 1953, when I was 10 years old. It was on display at the end-of-summer fair in Hookstown, Pennsylvania, parked in a tent alongside some sewing machines and refrigerators. What a beauty it was—I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I looked at it from every angle. I even got down on the ground and looked underneath. I gazed, for what seemed like hours, at my reflection in the chrome, and I knew someday that a new Corvette would be part of my life.

The image of that car stuck in my mind, and I dreamed about it all the time. I read every article about the Corvette I could find. 

After I graduated from high school and was working, I started looking for a used Corvette, but none I looked at felt quite right. By 1969, I was working full-time and going to college at night. On Valentine’s Day, while taking a world history exam, I got an overwhelming urge to order a new Corvette. I hurried through the exam and then literally raced over to my Chevy dealer. 

Even before I walked through the door, I knew exactly what I wanted: It had to be a convertible, it had to be red inside and out, and the roof had to be black.

I had seen this car in my mind and had run my hand over each and every inch of it. The salesman examined my current car, a ’64 Chevy Nova, and was eager to make a deal. It was in tip-top shape, with very low mileage, and he knew it wouldn’t last long on the lot. 

We haggled a bit and finally came to an arrangement, then I signed the deal and we shook hands. The salesman assured me my car would be here in 90 days, so when I got home, I grabbed the calendar and quickly marked off the date: May 15. May! Sunshine! Warm weather! Cruising with the top down! I could hardly wait.

May arrived, but no Corvette. Repeated calls to the salesman did little good—a strike had closed the St. Louis assembly plant. June, July, and August came and went, and great convertible weather was passing me by.

Finally, though, on September 9, my red beauty arrived. I came home from work and found a sketch of a Corvette my mother had lovingly drawn, with a note that the salesman had called. The months of waiting were over, and I raced to the dealership. 

There it was: my Monza Red convertible. I raised the hood to admire the 350 cubic-inch, 300-horsepower V-8. Then I signed the papers, handed over the keys to the Nova, and the salesman dropped the Corvette’s keys into my hand.

I slid into the driver’s seat and headed for the open road. I took it through all four gears, and I could feel the 3:36 rear end slide around the curves. 

Joy turned to grief, however, when I drove this beauty to my insurance agent… He had told me before I made the purchase that his company might not insure Corvettes. He tried to convince them to change their policy, but to no avail. Now I had my car and no insurance, so I canceled my policy and set out to find another insurance company. Thankfully, it was less of a problem that I’d feared, and the first three companies I called were ready and willing to insure me and the Corvette.

Almost 57 years later, I still own this remarkable car. I still have all the original paperwork, Protect-O-Plate, and all “inside the car” operating instructions. Over the past several years, I’ve gone to local car shows and have won more than 50 trophies. In 1996, I had the car judged at the local NCRS chapter meet, where it received a Top Flight award. Ten years later, NCRS invited me to display it in the gallery at Corvettes at Carlisle.

My C3 is part of me. When I sit and gaze at my reflection in the chrome, I can still see that wide-eyed 10-year-old with a dream of the “perfect machine.”

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