I gracefully thread the chiseled prow of a creamy 1989 Lincoln Town Car down a narrow serpentine California foothill lane, barely wide enough to contain the width of even a “downsized” Lincoln. Sunlight dapples the wide expanse of hood, clearly designed to let the driver feel he was in a command of a “full size” car. The steering is feather light and shot through with an elephant’s dose of novacaine, the slim wheel feels dainty in my hand. Prod the right pedal and a gentle whir is audible, probably only the fan, and the Magnolia Belle’s hoop skirts bellow a trifle and she gathers speed like Scarlet O’hara descending a staircase. Doubtless leaving a fragrant trail of catalyzed exhaust and Giorgio perfume in her wake. Miss Magnolia Belle is a most gracious hostess, her seats are great sofas in leather the color of English toffee. There is soft, soft carpeting underfoot. All this mellowness is punctuated with winking bits of chrome on the switchgear. Everything is gentile, yet substantial. A soft reassuring oasis of calm. The Lincoln mascot on the hood a star guiding you to a bright horizon and safe harbors. I want this car. To be continued….
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