Me and My Ragtops

My lifelong romance with ragtops came full circle this past November of 2025 with an impulsive purchase that still surprises me. This is a story that began in 1956. That’s 70 years ago. Let me take you for a ride.

I was just a lad of 21, that magic age when it was legal to get a driver’s license and climb behind the wheel. Which I did, thanks to my father. He said he’d buy me a car but didn’t ask me what kind I wanted. Instead he said, “Let’s go see my friend Eddie Birenbaum at Barford Chevrolet. Dad put more faith in the salesman than the car, although he was a Chevy man. He never owned a Ford, only Chevy’s. And Oldsmobiles. Remember those?

So we went to see Eddie. I knew what I wanted. A couple of weeks later I picked it up - a 1956 white Chevy Bel Air convertible. Black nylon top. Powerglide automatic transmission. I fell in love with that car, looked for reasons and excuses to drive somewhere, anywhere, especially if the weather was nice enough to have the top down. I drove that car to Ft. Riley, Kansas, for 3 months of ROTC army camp. My next road trip, following college, was to a Nike guided missile site near Pittsburgh, PA. I helped save our steel mills from Russian bombers. No need to say “Thank you for your service.” Happy to do it.

Out of the Army in 1959, I kept the car for a few more months, then reluctantly traded it in, again at Barford, for a 1960 Corvette convertible. Cascade green, I think they called it. I opted for a manual shift: four-on-the-floor. This, without doubt, was the coolest car I ever owned. Although I still retain fond memories of my Bel Air. I took the Corvette to San Francisco, top down most of the way, when I moved there in 1960, for a year. Where it was stolen, recovered, and patched up. You might not believe this, but I still have dreams - rarer now - that I’m walking down a dark, narrow street and come across my Corvette at a garage or repair shop. I realize that’s a bit weird, to dream about a stolen car sixty years later. If I had $100,000 lying around that I didn’t need, I’d buy one. They’re out there.

In 1965 I got married. My wife loved the Corvette, but I was having engine trouble with it, a result of it being stolen and stripped in SF. So I traded it in for a dark blue Oldsmobile Jetstar convertible. This was a lot bigger than my ‘Vette, not a sports car by any means, but still a lot of fun. A full-sized ragtop. The Olds had a back seat, which provided room for our two Golden Retrievers, always a draw when we took them to Ted Drewes for their soft-serve ice cream.

I had that Olds for almost twenty years, long enough so that my daughter became old enough to drive it. She was a big fan of the Caped Crusader, so she of course christened the car The Batmobile. She even put the Batman symbol on the door. I added a bike rack on the trunk so I could take my son to various school and scout events.

The parade of convertibles in my life continued for awhile - a rather pathetic used Dodge Dart, maybe the worst car I ever owned, followed by a Lincoln Capri (not a convertible; sporty but kinda of boring), and finally a return to convertibles with the distinctive Mazda RX-7 convertible. Great design, looked sharp, and was a joy to drive. It felt like the Corvette. Except it had a rotary engine, which was Mazda’s gift to the repair shops.  Still, it was a hot car, about the size of a Corvette. It handled beautifully, and was at home on the highway but had no room for dogs. I eventually traded it in for a non-convertible, beginning a forgettable stretch of many years without a ragtop.

Until last November. This was one of those “out of the blue” events. I was having lunch with a long-time friend named Betty, who was just weeks away from moving from St. Louis to Los Angeles. She was not taking her car with her, and told me she was going to sell it. I knew she had a convertible, so I asked her for some information on it.

“A Ford Mustang,” she said. “A convertible. It’s a 2014, with 42,000 miles on it.”

That got my attention. I didn’t even have to ask her what the price was. She told me.

After lunch we walked out to the parking lot. “There it is,” she said. And “it” was a silver Mustang, black top, looking as new as the day it rolled off the line. I didn’t say anything but it got me thinking. One thing you need to know about me is that I am not an impulsive person. I like to think things over before I make a decision. I think my mother instilled that in me.

The next day the Mustang dominated my thoughts. So I said to my squatter Betsey, “That Mustang. I’m thinking I want to buy it. What do you think?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Do it.” She’s a woman of action. “I’ll even help pay for it.”

Minutes later I was on the phone with Betty. “I want to buy your car.”

Which I did.

Did I regret it? No. Did I have to reconsider? No. Was I pleased that I now owned a ragtop again? Definitely yes. But I had one random thought: Who buys a convertible in November in St. Louis? Autumn is ending, winter approaches.

Not to worry. The heavens smiled. The day after I paid Betty and drove the car home, the sun was shining, the temperature was 75 degrees. In November! So of course Betsey and I went somewhere. To a winery in Defiance, Missouri, sat outside for lunch, drove back late afternoon. Top down all the way.

I had a ragtop again. I was 21 years old again. I had a good looking chick by my side again.

So I’ll end this journey with the words of BB King.

“Hey everybody, let’s have some fun.

You only live but once and when you’re dead, you’re done.

So let the good times roll,

Let the good times roll.

I don’t care if you’re young or old,

Get together and let the good times roll.”