(for get-pushed challenge from Wendy Bowen "a bit of double exposure this week, either in camera or editing program, with a theme hard vs soft)
Warning: nostalgia ahead.
I bought my first car out of the newspaper, no test-driving, no comparison shopping, no nothing. The temperature was about 100 degrees, sort of like today, one hundred degrees, feels like 120. The sweat was pouring off me as I sat perfectly still on the futon which lived folded up on the floor of the living room and served as my couch. I saw the ad for the Chevette in the paper and decided to buy it. Luckily I had a friend with a car to cart me around since tagging it took three trips to the DMV. The seller did not give me the lien release when she gave me the title, so I had to go back and fetch it. On the second trip I learned that you have to purchase insurance on a car before you can register it. It was only on the third trip to the DMV that I finally acquired the proper documents and plates and acquired the beautiful essence of freedom that constitutes a car.
Recalling this beloved car also means recalling all sorts of ailments it had. It didn’t always run. In fact it lost power alarmingly on an interstate highway going uphill the very first time I took it on a road trip, which was about five minutes after I got the tags. I kept right on going, just stayed off the interstates. Once, the muffler fell off and I drove around sounding like a truck. Another time there was a hole in the pipe leading to the muffler. There were holes in the vacuum system. The springs were broken and even after they were fixed, the car rattled alarmingly. The clutch stick fell off in the middle of rush hour traffic. Another time the clutch itself broke so I had to leave the car in DC and take the train home to Baltimore. There was some piece of equipment that was secured into place with a bottle cap that had to be shoved back into place periodically. One time the car stopped in the middle of an intersection. Two men in a pickup truck pushed it off the road to the driveway of an abandoned house and gave me a lift to the friend’s house where I had been headed. “You remind us of our daughters,” they said. Another time a boyfriend left the key in the ignition on a city street and the car was stolen, then unsuccessfully set on fire, a fact I did not notice when I went to the impound lot to retrieve it. Astonishingly enough, I had to pay a ransom fee to the city, which didn’t seem quite fair, since I hadn’t stolen my own car. But it wasn’t all trouble! I can still remember how I reveled in the feel of the open road, the engine’s heat pouring out onto my legs in the middle of summer, AM radio blaring, windows wide open. The little thing may have been a death trap, but I loved it.
I’ve had several cars since then. I bought a brand new Saturn that drove like a tank…but also protected me like a tank when I was t-boned. I never experienced one drop of love for that car, other than for its tape player which opened up to me the world of Books on Tape, particularly wonderful since I was commuting about 1.25 hours each way in those days. But I have to admit that that car never broke down one time, although the windshield wipers did give out once during a tremendous rainstorm and I had to drive two miles at one AM along the shoulder of an interstate with my head sticking out into the maelstrom. The gas station owners taught me about the wonders of Rain-ex, and I gave everyone I knew a bottle of the stuff for Christmas that year just in case their wipers ever quit during a rainstorm.
Later in life after a move, I bought a tinier and even more dubious car than the beloved Chevette, a little red Opel with a choke, the only car in all of Switzerland that had rust. There was a leak somewhere and the floor mat grew a fascinating green mold. To my neighbors' great disapproval, the car spewed out black exhaust when it started, although somehow it passed the mandatory emissions tests. Not having a steady job at the time, I was afraid to take it in to the shop to see about the non-functioning heater, and drove an entire winter wrapped in blankets and gloves. The fix turned out to be a $20 thermostat, so the suffering had been quite unnecessary. But to this day, I feel deep appreciation for heaters in cars. I’m sure I would take that heat for granted had I not lived with the Opel.
Now my car life is cushy. My car runs quite reliably and probably will do so for ages after I’m done with the minivan lifestyle. I drive a Toyota minivan, a regular mom-mobile, christened the “mothership.” Yes, I can haul your kids. Yes, I can haul the grandparents. Yes, I can haul your trash and I can help you move. Yes, I can haul an entire vanful of junk that is on its way somewhere but hasn’t quite gotten there yet. Yes, I can make cross-country trips. Yes, I can teach teenagers to drive (that’s a whole other story, one that I am extremely grateful has come to an end). Yes, I can stretch out full length and take a proper nap in the car. I’m so used to the van’s reliability that when it wouldn’t start the other day at the supermarket I experienced complete and utter panic. Total helplessness! I don’t recall feeling that way when I actually did have unreliable transportation. There was nothing actually wrong with the car. It just needed a battery. Joe wrangled us a jump and we drove straight to the parts store where they installed a new battery. And, of course, being older and fully employed, I certainly have the means to call a tow truck and rent a car if needed. So I’m not quite clear on the panic thing. It would seem that decent cars and financial stability have conspired to make me feel a bit less secure. I’m a bit nostalgic for the security I felt in the wide world when my cars and my finances were not as reliable.
