My sister, who actually owned the car, named her Sarah Jane, though not out of any affection for the Dart. Actually, Eileen was sure Sarah Jane hated her. Sarah Jane must have loved my father, though, because she never let him down. I loved Sarah Jane too, and viewed her as a family member. She had been with us only slightly less time than I had.
Fast forward to Summer 1983. Dad lets me take the car out to a friend's place in Oakdale, Long Island for a day of partying. Upon arriving there, smart guy that I am, I open the trunk to get out beer or something and slam the keys in the trunk. Talk about that sinking feeling. Being a recent college grad, I figure we can take out the back seat and get into the trunk. Guess what? No tools! They are in the trunk, too!!
I suppose I could have swallowed my pride and called Dad to bring the extra keys out to Oakdale from our home in Queens, but my male pride wouldn't let me do that. Besides, that would be too easy, and the story would end here.
Towards evening, I decide I can get us all home if I hotwire the car. You see, Sarah Jane had been stolen some years before, and when we recovered her, we found that the thieves pulled the plastic connector off the back of the ignition switch and fired her up (but that's another story).
Of course, we had no wire, but a coat hanger is basically wire, isn't it? Amazing how college helps you prepare for real life! Well, after bending a few hangers, I was ready to insert them. Whoever coined the term "hot wire" was not kidding! The lack of insulation and the power of that battery burned both my hands as I tried to figure out which terminals in the connector controlled the starter and the ignition.
Well, I got the car running with duct tape on the bent hanger pieces, and we took off down the highway. We had lights, but no accessories or turn signals. About ten minutes into our return trip, we thought we smelled something burning, and I touched the duct-tape-wrapped coat hanger. It promptly smoked, broke, and fell onto the rubber floor mat smoldering. Naturally, Sarah Jane quit running. Ever try to steer, brake, and stomp out a fire at the same time? It's not easy.
So now we were stranded. I finally swallowed what shred of male pride I had left, and called my father to rescue us. He bummed a ride from my Uncle Christy, another candidate for sainthood along with Dad, brought the keys and the shop manual, and we hooked everything back up and headed home. Sarah Jane was none the worse for wear and gave no problems on the way back to Queens. I, on the other hand, suffered from male-pride-induced embarassment, burned hands, and only a small amount of abuse from Dad. I guess I should give Dad credit for understanding "guy things" after all.
Sarah Jane served me without complaint for another year, bringing me to Texas, where I have lived for the last 12 years. I gave her up shortly after arriving here for a 1984 Mazda 626, because an 18 year old, rusty, clapped out looking car without air conditioning did not fit my new image. I have come to regret that more with the passing years. I hope to have another Dart in the family sometime soon.