That night, my GF and I rode to dinner in the back seat of a 1964 Dodge Dart GT. It’s a hardtop. It was a warm evening so we had rolled the windows down. Yes, rolled. With the wind in my face, I reached, literally, for a handful of the past. I reached halfway out through the open window, and rested my hand on the sill that glass had been cranked down into. Feeling the chrome trim and twin rubber sweepers beneath my palm, I slid my hand forward, across the slight gap of door jam, and a few inches further onto the sill of the driver’s door. Yup, it’s a hardtop. No B-pillars. Just a wide open space from the dashboard to the opera lights.