Jean & The Ghia

Model:

1974 Karmann Ghia

Name:

I just call her The Ghia.

Color:

Tangelo Pearl Orange. Orange is my favorite color.

Mileage:

35,836

Motors:

Two plus whatever Mr. Deskins had.

Owned since:

Early 1990s. I started paying Mr. Deskins at 17, got it at 18, and started fixing it up at 19. It took me a couple of years to get it on the road.

Owners:

Maybe Mr. Deskins was the original owner. That’s one of the things I regret—I never asked Mr. Deskins questions about the car.

Location:

Virginia

Favorite driving song:

Anything Tyler Childers

For years, we would drive down this street—it was kind of a main street in San Diego. On a side street, down an embankment, you could see the yards of the houses on the other side. I would always look at this Ghia just sitting in someone’s yard under a tree, covered with leaves and stuff. Every time we’d drive down that street, I would always look at it for no reason. I’d always look. Then, one day, I’m driving down that street and the leaves are off and it has a for-sale sign. And I was like, Wow! I had never thought anything about a Ghia, and I was like, I want that car.

I’ll never forget this. I’m like, “Excuse me, sir. I left a note about this car. I want to buy this car.” And he was so mean, Mr. Deskins. He was so mean. He barely even looked at me. He’s like, “You don’t want this car. This car isn’t for a girl like you.” He was such a jerk. And I’m like, “No, really, I don’t know why, but I want this car.”

To make a long story short, Wendy, his wife—the total opposite of him, the sweetest lady, invites me in. I’m peeling and cutting potatoes with Mrs. Deskins. And then, later on, he comes in and she’s like, “Larry, sell her the car.” And he’s like, “All right. How much are you going to give me for it?” And I was like, “Oh my gosh, I don’t have any money. But I’ll pay you. I’ll bring you money every time I have money.” And he’s like, “All right.” So every time I get a few dollars, I take Mr. Deskins twenty bucks, ten bucks. He was the nicest mean man.

Then one day, I go to bring Mr. Deskins money and he’s like, “Damn it, just take the car, Jean.” Mr. Deskins was the sweetest man—it’s bringing tears to my eyes. Because he made it his business to be mean, but he’s not mean, he was the sweetest mean man.

Now, in retrospect, I get it—I was young. I was seventeen at the time. It may have been a year of me literally not paying Mr. Deskins anything. We never set a price. It was just like, “I’ll bring you money, I’ll pay for it.” He never said how much the car was. I’m just bringing him some money. I paid, like, nothing for the car.

My mom thought I was crazy. But my dad was always like, “If she does it, she’ll do it. If she doesn’t, she doesn’t.” So we got the car. Every time I’d do something with the car, I would be like a proud little puppy and go tell Mr. Deskins I did this thing or that. And I know he was proud of me.

The only thing I had to do was keep oil in it. And I didn’t do that. So I blew that engine and had to get another one. I’ve had two engines and whatever they had for racing it. Then I had it painted, and I just put it together. I literally put it together.

There are certain things that are still Mr. Deskins’—that ugly glove box. I always hated it. It’s mirrored. I have two glove-box doors that I just need to sand and paint black. I literally have them in the car. But for some reason, it’s that one little piece of Mr. Deskins. He was such a mean, sweet man. He really was, but I know he was proud of me. When I’d come up, he’d smile. He’d be like, “You got her running.” And I’d be like, “Yeah, Mr. Deskins, look. Look what I did.”

So one day I go down there and they weren’t home. I left this long note: “I love this car. I always look at it. I want to buy this car.” And I left my phone number. Mind you, this was before cell phones. Every day at home I’d ask, “Did anyone call about that car?” I’m still driving by and looking—the car’s still there. No one ever called.

So I’m driving by again one day, and I see the garage is open and this guy is sitting in a chair in the garage. I’m like, Oh my God, someone’s there. So I go down there, and it’s this cranky-looking old white dude. He’s sitting there in his garage. And I’m so nervous, because I’m like a kid, right?

I didn’t even drive the car, because it took a couple years to fix it up. My parents weren’t gonna help me. The car was a mess. I don’t know what the hell they did with the car, but I think they were using it for racing—it had this whale tail on the back, engine parts in the back seat, it was a hot mess. So I would order parts, rubber kits, emblems. I didn’t know anything. I’m young, so I was ordering cosmetic parts. Every time I had money, I’d order parts. And then after I had a bunch of parts—it had been at least a year and a half—my dad knew I was serious. He said, “All right, you’re serious. I’ll help you. I’ll get you a motor.”

That car knows things about me that nobody knows. I’m gonna cry. No, really—that car knows things about me that nobody knows. So many things. I was married very young, and I had no reason to get a divorce, but I wasn’t happy. One day I drove The Ghia down this winding street, and I was like, “Just tell me”—I’m just talking to God—"what do I do?” And then I stopped and she wouldn’t start. I’ve never told anybody that, but it was a sign: Dude, you know what to do. You need to just stop.

You know how they say that there are soul contracts before you’re even born? When a child is born into a family, that child is born to that mother to teach that mother something. This is already known. It’s already written. It’s almost like soulmates—soulmates aren’t just your husband or your wife; I think there are soul contracts. I’m meant to have that car, and then, obviously, the car was meant to have me. I don’t know which. I know it sounds weird, but I truly believe it.

I knew nothing about The Ghia. It’s a ’74. I was born in ’74. Did I choose that car? I don’t know. It wasn’t even for sale when I first saw it. There was nothing appealing about it. It was a car that was in a yard, that was under a tree, that was there. But something made me look at it every time.

When I transferred out to Virginia, one of the things I had in my move package was that they had to ship my car. I could not imagine being without her. It’s my piece of home. She’s my baby. She’s been through so much with me, especially leaving California, leaving my husband. When I need a private moment, that’s where I go. She’s my one constant. I’ll never let her go.

You don’t save the car, the car kind of saves you. We look at it as just metal and wires, but I wholeheartedly believe that there’s a soul there.