Doug Daugherty
When I was 17, my Dad, Harry Daugherty, bought me a car.
I was surprised at his generosity. He had never done anything so extravagant before.
I looked for what I thought he would approve of. We ended up at Hailey Chevrolet on Broad Street in the Fall of 1969.
I was staring at a new, matronly, light green Chevrolet Chevelle.
My Dad asked, “So?”
I said, “That one,” pointing to the modest, low-powered Chevelle.
Just on the lot, a large gangly trailer of new cars had pulled in.
On it were two new model 1970 Camaros, almost like race cars. One was a shiny, apple red; the other, polished orange, both with black vinyl roofs. (This was the Golden Age of Detroit Muscle Cars. These cars were being added to that Golden Age, especially to a boy of 17 years.)
Dad turned, glanced at the trailer. (I guess I followed his eyes.)
“What about one of those?” he asked, pointing with his cigar at Detroit’s newest and best.
I don’t remember exactly the feeling. Confusion turned quickly to anticipation.
“You mean THOSE?” I exclaimed.
“Which one you want?”
I thought quickly, and spit out, “The red one.”
My Dad, motioning in the affirmative to the salesman with his cigar.
I was thrilled with teenage boyish joy.
I now had one of the first two 1970 Camaros in my hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee. It was beautiful to look at. It would turn out that it would hug the road, could accelerate like a race car, and was to me, the highest most important thing I could express my personhood through. It’s beauty filled me with a special feeling, like you get when someone gives you unexpected praise.
It was fast! It had a 302 cubic inch V8 engine that could accelerate like a scalded dog with top speed of, well, I know it could go at least 120 mph. It could corner like sticky on a bun.
I wasn’t used to this kind of performance. On the first day out, I was stopped at a red light on North Terrace, when a green Barracuda pulled up next to me. The driver stared at me and revved his throaty engine. I was innocent, but not ignorant. I knew what he wanted. The light changed; I floored it; tires screeched; and off we went like something at Boyd’s Speedway. My victory was glorious! After that, I grew used to being challenged.
The car came at a time when many young adolescents struggle. I questioned my worth, my hair, my place in life, my clothes, my need for acceptance and love, in short, my value as a person.
My mother the year before had a stroke and never fully recovered. She was, regrettably, out of the picture in terms of a sympathetic ear. There was only my Dad, a successful businessman known for his generosity. He must have sensed my loneliness. The unexpected gift was his way of saying, “You are of value.”
At that time in my life, I needed to know that someone cared. Like many adolescents, I was finding life difficult. This Camaro, sleek and new, was my earthly father giving me an unexpected gift in the midst of a hurting life.
I see now it was much more.
Then it was a gift through my Dad, a gift of simple generosity. Now I see it as a needed palliative from my Heavenly Father. A form of common grace. A type of “grace step” that I didn’t understand at the time. As I look back, this gift said to me, “You Dad is giving you a gift. You are of value to Him. You, son, are of more value than you know.”
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Doug Daugherty can be reached at dedsr1952@gmail.com