Candy apple red—a color that joins the flame of fall’s reds, oranges and golds. Treats of this color reliably make their fall appearance in several countries as though the confluence of the apple harvest, Hallowe’en, and the UK’s Guy Fawkes/Bonfire Night (November 5th) predestined the bond of red sugar shellac and apple. Some weeks ago I noticed red hard-coated candy apples for sale in our local supermarket. As my father might have joked, “A free pair of dentures with every candy apple,” (if you can stand it, another of my father’s jokes may be found in the post, constancegemmett.com/the-4th-of-july)
Still, those candy apples drew my eye, the candy apple red color a beacon. The draw was one of nostalgia and not temptation. Nostalgia for my childhood, but also my youth, when we briefly owned a candy apple red 1966 Mustang.
As a child, my small choppers could not break their way in, so my father started the candy apples for me. Once he cracked the red shellac, I could access the rest.
At some point, I discovered caramel-coated apples. Easier to eat, the caramel apples were sometimes rolled in peanuts—delicious! My father then was relegated to eating his own candy apple, but I don’t think he indulged. Our ritual was the only draw for him.
It was hard to choose between the candy apples regardless, since the color candy apple red is both lurid and alluring. Some sort of fantasy of owning a candy apple red Mustang led us to buying a wreck of one in the very early 1980s. The car body was banged up—a dull version of its original glory. We bought the faded red 1966 Mustang for next to no money, which was fortuitous since I had none. Suzy and I were friends then. Friends usually don’t buy cars together, but the purchase, the ownership and the inevitable sale did bring us together.
I’d never driven a 225 HP V8 before and though our Mustang had it’s problems, lack of zip was not one of them. Getting it going was. We kept a plumber’s wrench in the glove compartment in order to bang on the solenoid. A few well-aimed smacks and the engine would fire up and if lead-footed on the accelerator, you were off to the races!
Reality set in during the month in which the Mustang had to pass a Massachusetts inspection. I’m sure they didn’t use the testing machines inspection sites do now. Regardless, the Mustang’s carbon output would have flunked any inspection, the inspector overcome by dizzying carbon monoxide fumes. Worse though was the fact—unknown to us—that the car just wasn’t…connected.
I had the bright idea to take it to an inspection station in the city of Chelsea, its reputation for corruption leading me astray. A ten dollar bill burned a guilty hole in my pocket. But as Sam Spade said in The Maltese Falcon, “Don’t be too sure I’m as crooked as I’m supposed to be.” The inspector wasn’t either. He was downright avuncular, lecturing me on the dangerous condition of the car. The chassis was not connected to the body of the car, just vaguely related. He finished with a flourish, affixing whatever sticker used to show every cop the car had not passed inspection. His last words a philosophical question, “Lady, if I pass this car, what car would I not pass?”
We parted ways, the inspector, Chelsea and I, the ten dollar bill still in my pocket, and I drove home to Cambridge. We decided the Mustang had to go, not actually being a roadworthy car. Suzy sold it to a young enthusiast for next to nothing. He did return the car to glory, but one day the ’66 Mustang—candy apple red once more—died while crossing commuter rail train tracks. The young man wisely fled to safety but alas, the train destroyed the Mustang, giving the weary commuters something to talk about. My guess is he forgot to smack the solenoid.
1980 spluttered to a halt just shy of forty years ago. 1966 ran out of gas fifty-four years ago. I guzzled my last candy apple more than fifty-four years ago. Apples seem as sweet as candy, so why flirt with expensive dental work? Candy apple red remains a lurid and alluring color—a promise of fun, adventure, danger—but at my age, the threat of danger puts a lid on the other two. No cars going around corners on two wheels for me, no Russian roulette with teeth. I have found a safe version of the Mustang in my dull brown, giant 2019 RAM truck. Put your foot down and it goes like gee whiz, the satisfying roar of the Hemi enhancing the experience.
Ford is rolling out an electric Mustang this year—bravo. Reported to be a small, peppy SUV (is the idea to compete with Tesla’s new SUV?), more utility than sport. Available in Rapid Red. It’s an attractive vehicle, but fuddy-duddy enough for those old enough longing for the ’66 version. ‘Tis a pity they didn’t name the color Candy Apple Red—
