Baby You Can Drive My Car....Yes, I'm Gonna Be A Star...

“The cars we drive say a lot about us”

--- Alexandra Paul

If this is true, then my car says I’m old, dented and have been around the block a few times. Which would be correct, so, mission accomplished. Once upon a time, we were both shiny and new, and we smelled different. The human equivalent of “new car smell” is probably wearing the nice lotion that smells like flowers and sunshine, whereas now I’m lucky if I take the time to slap on some Jergen’s once a week.

The first car I ever owned was also the first car I ever drove. My mother had a 1978 Toyota Corolla wagon and I learned how to drive in it, starting off in empty parking lots, moving on to the small roadways in the cemetery and finally to the open road. It was a fierce little car. It didn’t have air conditioning, power windows or front-wheel drive, but it had two studded snow tires that never failed to get me through bad roads and blizzards. 

Picture it in Wild Strawberry Red

Eight years later when I graduated from college, the car was still going strong, even if it did refuse to start every now and then for no reason.  My mother gave it to me as a graduation gift and said I could have it painted so it would seem a little newer. She said she would prefer that I not paint it red since she believed red cars were more dangerous.

I painted it red.

What I thought I looked like (so not even close)

Even then, the car said a lot about me; it looked dangerous but really wasn’t and it would occasionally refuse to do as it was asked.

Looking dangerous, Senior year at SMC 

I was smart enough to spell AUTOBAHN

 I drove it for another four years and in that time it earned a few dents and dings, but it carried me safely and securely through so much.

The cars I have had since then have mostly been serviceable and chosen for practical reasons. When I was commuting long distance I had a Camry because it got excellent mileage. I was never about luxury or status in a car, mostly because I couldn’t afford to send the message that I was a well-heeled suburban housewife that cruised around in German engineering but couldn’t spell Autobahn. I also never liked big cars. Being short is hard enough without needing a set of hydraulic steps to slide out so I can get into the front seat. Those are extra and with my balance issues, dangerous. It also seems like a waste of space to drive a car that can carry the first string of a major league hockey team and their equipment, when all I was hauling were some groceries and a couple of baby seats.

There was one car, however, that was not entirely practical, but that I had to have. My shiny, jet black, 1998 Volkswagen Beetle. At the time, I had two kids and the back seat held exactly two people. That’s where the practicality of it ended. The trunk wasn’t really big enough for a stroller so poor George had to walk a lot, but hey, he was a hardy three-year-old, it was good for him. It didn’t get great gas mileage, which surprised me, but it had a bud vase. Literally, the car came with something to hold flowers. If that’s not a slice of happy, I don’t know what is. I’d wanted a Bug since I was little and my favorite aunt had one. There were adventures in the V-Dub, for sure. One Halloween I put a witch hat on the roof, secured a broomstick to the back, and had a few yards of black cloth streaming out of the windows. I cruised around Salem hollering, “Surrender Dorothy” and it was the most fun ever. Even the cop who pulled me over was laughing.

I will never sink, never surrender. 

Then, without warning, came my defeat. A lovely surprise, now known as Devin. Three kids meant my beloved Beetle had to find a new home. My new ride was safe, secure and boring. I caved and went for the family van. Oh, and for the record, I have seen a minivan around town with the license plate “ICAVED.” To whoever owns it? I’ve been there, but it gets better. Once the kids were older, I found the car I have now, a lovely gold Toyota RAV 4, circa 2008. The color is actually called “Beach Sand” and it’s perfect. It holds kids and dogs and furniture and while it might not be sporty it’s not a minivan or a land yacht and there have been some good times in that car. A few shall remain untold tales, but trust me, it’s been a sweet ride.

Cars will come and go, and for me, it’s not about muscle or mechanics, but rather choosing a car that suits who I am. Think about all the driving most of us do; anything you’re spending that much time in should make you happy. I added one of those family stickers on the back window, only mine has the little cartoon kids being gobbled up by a T-Rex and says, “Your stick family was delicious.” Someday I will have my dream car, a red 1964 ½ Ford Mustang convertible, but for now, my dented and rattling RAV will keep me rolling down the road to the next adventure.

My Dream Car