By Rochelle Lloyd

Sometimes the things we hope for take a long time to come to fruition. Leslie Householder once compared it to having a baby: even if that baby is a little later than expected, we know it’s still coming—and we can hardly wait.

Recently, a childhood dream of mine finally came true. But it took a very, very long time.

When I was a little girl, I absolutely adored my dad. He was my hero. There was a song by Janeen Brady called “My Dad,” and it went something like this:

My dad’s the biggest guy and,
My dad’s the strongest guy and
My dad’s the nicest guy of any guy in town
He can do anything—he’ll fix your bike or fly a kite—
’Cause my dad’s, my dad’s the greatest guy around

He can throw a ball so high you think it’s gonna break the sky,
He knows the name of every kind of jet
He can add up any sum,
He always has money for bubble gum—
I haven’t figured how he does it yet, but,

My dad’s the smartest guy and
My dad’s the bravest guy and
My dad’s the neatest guy it’s positively so—
Maybe I’ll introduce you, then you’ll know
That it’s the truth, ’cause my dad’s, my dad’s the greatest guy you know.

Now, my dad couldn’t name every kind of jet, but he could tell you nearly everything about cars—who made them, what year they were built, how the body styles evolved, and all the specs in between. He could spot a make and model from a mile away and tell you if it had been modified. I loved it. I soaked it up.

That love for a well-built, well-tuned machine took root in me. I still cherish those moments we shared, just listening to him talk about the deep rumble of engines and the stories behind the cars he admired.

I remember one day vividly. He was telling me about the Chevy Bel Air—the iconic beginning of the muscle car era. He walked me through the differences between the ’55, ’56, and ’57 models, pointing out the design evolutions and what made each one special. Right then and there, I decided: someday, I’m going to own a 1957 Chevy Bel Air. I was ten years old.

Fast forward thirty-plus years.

I was taking Leslie Householder’s “Achieving the Impossible” class and learning about the laws that govern success. At the time, I was simply looking for a reliable car for our youngest son to get to and from school. Nothing fancy—just something dependable. I wasn’t having much luck locally, so I thought, why not try eBay Motors?

While scrolling through listings in our price range, a few old cars popped up. Every time I saw one, I thought about that 10-year-old version of me, and that quiet little dream that had never fully gone away.

And then… it happened.

There it was. My car.

The perfect year. The perfect color. The original glass. Only 30,000 miles. Sure, it needed work, but I didn’t care—I was dreaming again. Just seeing it stirred something in me. I didn’t expect to win the auction; Bel Airs usually go for far more than we were willing to spend. But I wanted to participate—to at least take one step toward a long-held dream.

I asked my husband if we could place a bid, and wanting to support my spark, he said, “Of course.”

I was elated.

Four days passed. The auction was ending, and almost 100 people were watching it. I’d just been outbid by $100. I told myself, Okay—one more bid. Just $100 more. And then I’d be done.

I watched the clock tick down, heartbeat pounding. Surely someone else would swoop in at the last second.

But no one did.

As the final second disappeared, I looked at my husband and said, wide-eyed, “I think we just bought a car.”

Sure enough, I was now the owner of a 1957 Chevy Bel Air.

When I spoke with the seller, he told me he’d taken the car to several shows but couldn’t find a buyer. Some even suggested he part it out. But it had been in his family for years, and he had hoped it would go to someone who truly wanted it—not just someone looking to flip it for profit.

To me, this car was more than a project. It was a bridge between generations—my dad, me, and one day, my kids and grandkids. A legacy.

When I told him that, he paused and said, “It was meant to be with you.”

He was right. The gestation was long, but the dream never died.

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