1948 chevy, be it ever so humble

The elder statesman towers over Rambler upstart in Lake Andrew driveway.

The only known photograph of my first car, purchased for $50 from Johnny Seim. Ran terrific except spilled oil from breather pipe. Needed 25 cent quart of reprocessed oil every 50 miles, necessitating a curb-side stop in Fergus Falls on the way to college in Moorhead. No engine check light. Dry lifters went rat-a-tat-tat to remind you. Always carried a trunk-load of spare oil bottles beside a big tire. Interior dolled up with carpet scraps from my summer job at Engstrom Furniture. Sat up straight with lots of headroom, vision. Room for three in front. Girls sat over beside you if things were special. Otherwise no.
My roommate had an accident with it, severely damaging opponent. No harm reported to my car.
In photo above, it appears to be getting a "jump" in May 1967 from Mom's Rambler, age 3. Or was it the other way around?
Donated away in 1967 when I moved to Mpls, the 1948 Chevy was tough. Auto factories had recently retooled from building tanks for the Army and apparently had plenty of steel and habits left on hand. It lorded over the younger models as legendary champion of Fargo, North Dakota, demolition derby until death finally claimed it at age 20.
"You just couldn't kill it," one bemused spectator observed to me later.
So proud.