How To Repair A 1970 Plymouth Satellite

1970 Plymouth Baracuda, The Bumblebee Hemi 'Cuda

I was a born car-girl or car-junkie. I'm sure it comes from the fact that my dad was always working on my family's cars. During my youngest years, they were a 1970 Plymouth Satellite and a 1963 Plymouth Valiant [with a slick push-button transmission]. My dad was a "Plymouth guy" and was always fixing and tweaking them. I had little like for dolls or girlie things, and being a 100% "daddy's-girl," it guaranteed I would be found watching him work on our cars every chance I got. By 2nd grade, I could change the oil, including replacing the filter. By 4th grade, I was changing out belts, replacing brake pads and shoes, and flushing the system.

We summered in France every two to three years to stay with my maternal grandmother in a tiny three-story flat in the small medieval hamlet of Toul in the Germanic Alsace-Lorraine Region of eastern France. [another story] We were set to go again in the summer of 1980, the summer before I started 6th grade as a middle schooler.

My dad told my mom that he & I weren't going because he wanted me to perfect my French "accent-free" during that summer! I was PISSED and SO jealous! I adored my summers in France, traveling the surrounding villages and visiting nearby countries, and playing with my cousins amongst the ruins from the Middle Ages, or Nazi occupation, and Roman Rule. What better place to LOSE your American accent than IN France? But being an accomplished French teacher at Brookfield HS – there was no talking my dad down. So my mom and sister left for the summer, and I was stuck… or so I thought!

The day after they left, and sure my summer was about to become awful; my dad took my godfather and me to this dude's house in Danbury. I kicked rocks by the Satellite while they all talked. I saw my dad count out four 100 dollar bills into the dude's hand. He gave my godfather his car keys and said to me, "C'mon punk. You're riding with me!" And he walked me over to a beat to crap 1970 Plymouth Baracuda and said "Hop in!"

Sidebar, I knew this car well from all the manuals and books my dad had about cars. The 1970 Barracuda was totally redesigned from the previous Valiant platform to be it's own car. The 1970 line was the birth of this true pony-car!! And I'll even be so bold to say; the Barracuda is THE one quintessential muscle car built by the Chrysler Corporation. To this day, I still believe the Barracuda bested its sister car, the Dodge Charger – but that is a debate for another day! And Charger fans can cutch their pearls and nash their teeth in shock and anger all they want! It's just my opinion, and I'm pretty much always right… so there!

Back to my girl…she was a hard-topped coupe of a beauty. Now the 1970 line also came with several engine choices, like the Super Commando versions of 4-barrels, and its barely, better [aka FASTER] six-barrels. *yawn* And then there were the Hemis. Those babies unleashed 425 hp at full-throttle… a little car-junkie-girl's wildest dreams!! And our newly adopted girl was just that… a 1970 Hemi Baracuda – but anyone in the know simply called them "Hemi 'Cudas." That meant she not only had a bomber engine but was equipped with upgraded suspension components and structural reinforcements to help transfer her power to the road! More components = More tweaking! Bliss!!

And when my dad said, "Hop in!" I jumped!!.

We said nothing on the way home, and I was vibrating with joy the whole time. I was in a Hemi 'Cuda sliding around at every corner on her rich leather bench seats. Riding in the front, no seat belt, windows open…listening to the deep-throated rumbling-gurgle her engine made with every press of her gas-peddle. I was glad my dad didn't put on CBS radio, like usual, because I was entranced with her purr.

All the way home I thought "He did it!" The thing he was not allowed to do according to my mother! He bought a beater muscle car!! Then suddenly, realization set in. THIS was going to be our ACTUAL summer plans… not accent-free-French classes… but fixing up this amazing car!

And that's just what we did! Over several weeks we touched every surface of that car. She was ours! We planned our attack every Sunday night, and ordered parts at our local auto parts store as soon as they opened every Monday morning. Parts we needed for the following week.

We started with the engine and made her heart and soul look and behave brand new. Then we tackled her body and interior. I learned how to clean chrome with lemon juice and baking soda… or soaking it in Coca-Cola overnight for a day or two. Dad taught me that scratches on her body must be buffed down to metal and primed with anti-corrosives. Dents, where possible, were pulled out with a weighted screw-in auto dent puller, and/or hammered back to their factory shapes. But her rear right quarter panel had a smash…a big one. And we didn't have the money to replace a quarter-panel, with a used let alone a new one.

Plus my dad NEVER replaced what could be fixed. So I crawled under the car and banged out what I could for a whole morning. I think I swallowed 2 lbs of rusted metal. "Iron is good for the body!" my dad said when I told him, followed by, "Kennedys are Irishmen and we do not belly-ache!" when I continued complaining. Kennedys are very Irish, and even though I am adopted [another story] my birth dad's parents were off the boat from County Cork [I've since learned that's a lie]. So I felt every part of the Kennedy clan. "Kennedys are NOT suckers or belly-achers!" my dad would say as a daily affirmation and prayer alongside the daily dose of Hail Marys and Our Fathers!

When I banged out the back quarter-panel as best I could, my dad taught me how to use fiberglass, Bondo, and HOURS of hand-sanding to grow each layer out. Dozens of layers. Each one thickening her hull until we finally made the identical shape of a brand new panel. She was finally the perfect shape with a virtually brand new engine. But she looked like crap. Spots of grey were everywhere! Not much to see, but I'd close my eyes and run my hands all over her…every silky and smooth bend, curve, and dip. She was perfect… like brand new!!

It was then, while massaging my car, that reality dawned. It was Sunday, and my mom and sister were returning in two weeks. I hadn't thought of them much at all this summer. I was too busy working on the car. Some days we'd work from 7 up to 7 down. Most days we skipped lunch because we were so consumed with our task of bringing this car back to life.

I remember asking my dad late that night when I was going to bed, "What're we doing next?" I didn't have to mention I was talking about the car. She was our whole world then, so it was apparent. His response was, "Nothing, we're done. Nothing else to do." And I remember feeling gutted and sobbing myself to sleep that night – hoping my dad would hear me and come to comfort me and tell me a task or two we'd work on tomorrow. He never came. Kennedy's don't belly-ache, you know. But Monday morning did come, and it brought the empty-promise of "nothing."

I made us breakfast like I did every morning. Three 4-minute soft-boiled eggs. Two for him, one for me. And three barely toasted slices of bread with copious amounts of butter, so much that it couldn't all melt before you ate it. Along two cups of Sanka. My dad couldn't tolerate regular coffee, and I hated Sanka – but he drank it, and I did everything he did…if I was allowed.

We didn't talk that breakfast, and I recall my tears falling through it all. He never looked up with all my sniffles and tears. And when we were done, and I finished washing and putting away the dishes, he said. "C'mon punk. We're going for a ride." That stopped my tears, and lifted my mood a bit, but not much.

We drove to a place in Danbury called Maaco. I'd seen it but had no idea what it was. When we walked in, and I realized what this place was, I burst into tears again. I was a very easy cry… Whether sad, mad, or especially, happy, I cried…I still do! My dad gave me a rare hug and said, "Pick any color you want. Especially a bright one that'll make mom even madder than she's gonna be!" Dad lessons and reality check! We were in BIG trouble in two weeks!

Now any car junkie knows a 'Hemi Cuda's best look is a Bumblebee or Super Bee classic color and decal combo. And that's what I asked them to do. 4 days later we picked her up and she was a perfect Super Bee 'Cuda!! My dad and I spent the last 10 days of freedom driving that car all over the place. We even drove her to Springfield, Massachusetts for dinner just to open her up and release that 425 hp on the highway. It was the best end to summer ever!

When my mom & sister got home two days before school started, we picked them up from JFK's international terminal in the 'Cuda. Furious doesn't even describe my mother's reaction. She erupted like a volcano. The fire, flames, and ash kept coming out of her the two hours it took to get home.

All the while my sister, who always sucked at all times and still does [another story], kept trying to make me jealous by recounting everything SHE did in France. I sat there with the biggest grin as my dad kept winking at me in the rear-view mirror. My mom kept telling him we couldn't afford this car, and it was silly to have bought it. It would need to be sold. And he just kept winking at me. His winks told me it was all worth it, and this was our special moment together, even if we were in trouble.

When we got home – I joined my dad on the porch after getting him a Miller Lite and a rootbeer for me – an evening summer "beer" ritual we'd stopped because of the 'Cuda. I told him I was sorry I got him in so much trouble. He replied, "Nonsense. Every 11 year old needs to know how to fix a car inside and out! Now you do. And your French is pretty much accent-free anyways so we needed SOMETHING to do!" I asked him if we had to sell her. And he replied. "Maybe once she's tired and they'll take her for parts. That's how good we made her"

Fast-forward 4 years. I wanted my first car so badly. I had just turned 15 and was vibrating for my first car. We never had a lot of money, so I worked up the courage to ask my folks about a car. My mom calmly replied, "You can get a car when you get the money for one."

I remember getting pissed and shouting back "HOW CAN I GET THE MONEY FOR A CAR IF I CAN'T DRIVE TO A JOB TO MAKE MONEY!" [yes, I was a joy as a teen] She told me to shut up and eat my supper. I started crying [shocker!] I looked up at my dad, and he winked at me… now at this point, my dad and I were barely talking [another story I doubt I'll write], but that wink was always our special thing meaning. "All is well because, in life, you do what you gotta do to be you."

So the next day, I grabbed the paper. Down the road from me was a guy selling two AMC's. A 1972 Pacer and a 1970 Gremlin. Probably the two ugliest cars ever made. My mom would hate if I owned a car like that. And the guy was selling them for $200 each and he was just a mile and a half down the road. But I only had $200. So I made up my mind that if I could get the guy to sell one to me for $100, I'd buy it.

I called him and walked down to meet up. I instantly fell in love with the beige, rusty, banged up Gremlin. The Pacer was in good condition, but the Grem was a disaster! Nonetheless, I offered him the $100, and he refused. But when I told him that I wanted to fix her up and how it would piss my mom off so much – he handed me the keys with a smile and a wink! Kharma and SYMOBLISM collide!!

Now anyone who knows me KNOWS I drove that car home horn blaring to make sure my mom saw me park her in front of our little house. And as you can guess, I barely made it through the door before she told me I was "grounded immediately!!" Not only for buying the car but for driving it home illegally.

"How else was I going to get it home!" I yelled back.

My dad just winked at me when I walked by him with my mom screaming the whole time. So I slammed and locked my bedroom door, grabbed my other $100, climbed out my window onto the addition roof my dad built, hopped off, and ran back down to the man that sold me my car. I told him how pissed my mom was, and he replied, "All sales final, you can't have your money back." That was not my intention at all.

5-minutes later, I was driving back to my house… you guessed it… HORN BLARING… in the AMC Pacer and $20 bucks left in my pocket. The seller let me keep my last $20 for the laugh I gave him! I threw the Pacer's keys to my sister and said "She's yours!" I still hated my sister, but pissing my mom off this badly was well worth buying that brat an $80 car. It was then that my mom got real quiet – a scary thing for a French mom to do – and said, "You're grounded forever!" which was really fine with me. I had a car to fix, and wasn't much of a TV watcher. Deacon's family would never have Satan's cable in our house anyway according to my dad! [Another story]

Over the next year, I fixed her up. My dad's basement workshop always had the stuff I needed for her bodywork since he worked on our family cars [by this time a shitty but new Dodge Dart and a crappy old Toyota Carolla]. And he said I could use whatever I wanted. I grew my baby-sitting clients and paper route [the only jobs I could get with no car] and used the money to buy her parts. My dad would drive me anytime I needed hosing, filters, belts, etc., much to my mother's dismay."

She'll drive her car ILLEGALLY to get them herself when we're not looking if I don't take her!" My dad would say to my mom, and she'd let it go knowing it was true! [Yeah, I was a real treat as a teen! By this time I was already sneaking out of the house at night to be with my nearly next-door boyfriend and for glorious trips to NYC! Again, another story]

On my 16th birthday, my dad got me my license as a birthday present – the only one I wanted. And my Grem-girl was fully repaired and covered in Bondo and grey primer swaths. I was never told I was un-grounded. So I grabbed my keys and told my dad I was heading to Maaco and asked if he'd pick me up in about an hour. "Pick a bright color… that'll make your mom madder than she already is." Was his response. Classic!

I drove to Maaco and chose metallic teal. It would make this ugly car stand out even more proudly. And any decent 1970's car-junkie knows, ugly cars need white-wall tires and I had 4 brand new beauties in her trunk. So when I got to Maaco, I asked the dude if I bought a paint job, would they install the tires for free. He said, "Sure." But when I told him what I was willing to pay for the paint job, he replied, "You can put the tires on by yourself for that price!" I told him I would if he let me use his lift and air guns! SO much easier than a hand-jack and me having to jump on the lug-wrench. He laughed and agreed. Fool! Twenty minutes later, I had all four white-walls on and 50% off my paint-job. Kennedys are not suckers or belly-achers!

She was the best car! SO many memories. Hours of fun hanging with friends and being the designated driver when we drank at the Grove and at countless house parties. Driving all over New Milford to save friends from riding the dreaded bus to school. A boombox in the front seat, always blaring OMD, Janet Jackson, or Steve Miller Band. I was never taught how to handle electronics to fix the radio. Inside her Bondo shell, I had a few dates, including one of the sweetest first dates a girl could have, looking at you JB. Countless hours with that neighborhood "almost-boyfriend" in that car, singing, kissing, just spending time. Learning to love in an old car, what could be better. I learned to always lock her doors with a most unfortunate robbery with my best-friend Joey. She was my escape vehicle when I needed sanity and safety from my home life and family. Opening up her 6-cylinders on the highway and reveling in her sweet purring!

I replaced her with a VW Rabbit in 1988. The junkyard sold her for hard-to-find Gremlin parts instead of crushing her because she was in such good shape…because that's how good I remade her. A very proud moment for any car-junkie. I loved her and will never have a car nearly as amazing as she was!