In 1977 I drove myself, my young wife and child through a raging blizzard north of Grand Forks, ND, at night in a '68 142S. Cars were flying by into the ditch, I had the heater on full blast just to defrost the window and melt the snow, pulled off at every rest stop to refill washer fluid, everything seemed normal; kid sat in the back seat on the fold down arm rest in his snowsuit and mittens, wife gripped the passenger grab rail, when it got rough I just shifted into third; made it to the border around eight PM, kept going.

Somewhere close to Trancona, MB, I got lost on a country road but we finally rolled in safe and sound in, a Volvo. Saved my ass many times. A couple days later, -40F needless to say, the car would not turn over. FAther-in-law popped four quarts of oil into the oven, told me to go out and drain the old oil. I pulled the plug, nothing came out! Like tar! Built a small charcoal fire in a large coffee can under the crankcase, thawed and drained the crankcase, warmed the battery over night, hooked a chain to the old Dodge, pulled it up to thirty MPH, popped the clutch, started her up, loaded her up, and went home that morning. God, we were fearless in those days. I almost cried when I sold that 2dr which I bought from my neighbor in the Bronx for 450 bucks. Here's to you Volvo, cheers.