My very first car was a 1979 Buick Electra. I got it in 1990 when I was 16. It wasn't a car so much as it was a land-running nautical vessel, the enormity of the car was something that often frightened me. It was a huge hulking brown car whose top was losing the foamy bits on the back half of the roof. It leaked steering fluid like it was going out of style and the interior of the car was the size of my bedroom.

I hated that car.

The first moment it was feasible, I swapped it for a 1982 Honda Accord, whose seats had stuffing falling out of it. The window brace in the driver's side cracked and the window fell to the bottom of the door, so I had to superglue the window up (which made going through Drive Thrus an interesting experience). Living on the edge of a poshy school district (in the non-posh part) meant that my car would regularly get urinated on my football players anxious to whip their dicks out in the Texas sun and deface the car that dared to hover in the same parking lot as their Beemers and Porsches.

When my Honda was finally traded in for a 3-door Honda Civic the dealer told me the car would be junked, and I cried thinking how lonely that little car would feel in a scrapyard of other unloved cars.

I've had a number of cars in my life, and often the cars are related to the revolving door of men that I used to have enter and leave Cafe Helen (Thank you! Come again!). I now associate cars with exes. The VW Rabbit is for the Anton LeVey lookalike with the big horse teeth. The Toyota Tercel was the vehicle that took me to and from Kim, complete with the Darwin fish and the pro-choice sticker on the back bumper, Mardi Gras beads wrapped around the emergency brake. The Honda Civic is my ex-husband, and the memory of both the man and the car leaves me unfazed. The Volvo V40 saw out winter days with my X Partner Unit always driving the car, so repugnant was my driving to him.

And the truth is I'm not much of a car person. I don't actually care that much about a car, as long as it gets me from Point A to Point B and has a CD player I'm happy. My dream car is a VW Thing, or a Morris Minor, an old Mini, a VW Karman Ghia or a very used Land Rover.

I like old cars that are not posh, that live in quiet humility on edges of parking lots, that don't apologize for their quirkyness and that are driven by Bohemians that don't have Kafka dreams. Most people have cars that mean a lot to them-Angus had a series of Triumphs that he loved, my friend Jim is a big Nissan lover, some neighbors of ours seem to buy and love their Mercedes until they are so old and broken down that all you can do is remove the license plate and walk away.

I have only ever had one car whose memory stays with me. I bought this car when I was newly single from Kim and had just become employed in telecom, with a larger salary, a larger responsibility, and a large cube in an office in Dallas. I bought this car as a sign that I survived breaking it off with Kim, that I survived quitting the stockbroking business, and that I celebrated joining telecom as an instructor for Company X, the company that would later break my heart.

I bought a 1997 Volkwagen Cabrio. It was gently used-a woman had owned it for 6 months before falling pregnant and trading it in for a practical car. It was dark green with a black top and soft tan leather seats. It had a 6-CD changer snuggled in the trunk and one in the car. It was a beautiful sensuous car and I bought it without haggling, since I hate haggling, since I know what I want.

They must've seen me coming.

And that car fills me with a smile when I think about it. It was all my car, just my car. I would throw the top down and load the backseat with my enormous bag of hockey goaltending kit and head off for hockey practice. I had a Dallas Stars sticker on the back window and a wilted balloon from Quidam in the divider between the two front seats.

And I loved that car.

I would drive with the top down whenever possible. I remember the hot Texas sun on my neck and on my arms, I remember the wind whipping my hair around the hairband I would wear to keep it out of my eyes. I remember long hot stretches of baked sun-filled road as I would hurl down LBJ or hustle down Hwy 114. I remember playing the radio as loud as I could stand when the wind would rush past me, and to this day the song Run by Collective Soul makes me think of my wet thighs on the hot leather seat and the sun in my eyes.

That car was my independence. I bought it myself and I did it alone. I paid for it myself and I decided where to stop to fill it with gas. It was the first (and, perhaps, the last) time in my life where I did what I wanted, where I went where I chose, and I had no one else I had to think about in those equations.

I loved every single stitch and bolt of that car. In it, I listened to my own music as opposed to the music of the other in my life. That car drove me to my hockey practices. It saw me decide to go to Taco Bueno at 2 am for some homemade tortillas and a margarita if I so desired. It drove me to the ASPCA to get my puppy. It sheltered with me in the new house I bought in a shady part of Dallas called Oak Cliff, and it loved the house as much as I did.

It drove me to Game 6 of the Stanley Cup playoffs and a stunning Dallas overtime win that sent the stadium into screams of joy and saw us banging the seats and floorboards so hard that the lights were coming down. It drove me to the lonely and anguish-ridden hospital to watch my beloved Grandfather die. It drove me to the sandy soil of North Carolina when I relocated for Company X. It saw me single or dating, happy or miserable.

When I moved to Sweden I sold that car, seeing as a convertible in Sweden would be really impractical.

I still miss that car terribly, and when I think of it, I think of the vapor shimmering off the road in front of me. I think of freckles on my upper arm as rays of sun settled in under my skin. I remember brown grass wilting under the Dallas heat and the smell of oil in the air. I think of wisps of hair settling across my face and the feeling like I had just run a marathon when I got to my destination at the end of the Interstate. I think of Collective Soul, of Boscoe, of a sticky mouth of cherry Clearly Canadian, of the copper blood scent of melting ice on metal ice skate blades in the backseat and the feel of that leather against the back of my legs.

That car became the symbol of my independence and was the starting point of my education that I was stronger than I thought I was.

And as I think back on how that car made me feel, how that car saw me through extraordinary times, I realize that more than a Morris Minor, I would do anything to own one of those again, to feel the sun on my arms and Collective Soul on the radio, to be free to make a decision without worrying there might be consequences. But maybe it wouldn't be the same, maybe we all only have one car that affects us in that way, maybe that one car gives us something that no other cars do.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:11 AM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
Post contains 1413 words, total size 7 kb.

1 The Musers, Dunham & Miller. The Harline, Rhyner & Williams. Gordo, Corby, Charity Challenge on Ice, Guys' Night Out... I think we may have been in Dallas at the same time. And all this time later, I run across your blog. Interesting.

Posted by: Annette at February 17, 2005 12:30 PM (ZfCU9)

2 I was definitely gone from Dallas before you graduated from HS--the Wife and I left there in '92--but if you ever had dinner at the Magic Time Machine in Addisson as a Jr high kid then you might have seen me. Great post. My car was '69 Chevelle SS. I loved that car. 21 years later I still miss it.

Posted by: Easy at February 17, 2005 01:13 PM (K5XL8)

3 That was really just a great post, Helen, all the way around. Just great.

Posted by: RP at February 17, 2005 01:41 PM (LlPKh)

4 My first car (H.S. Senior 1990) was a '82 Dodge Omni. Everything but the handle for Drivers door and the heat broke on that car. Still it was a great little car. Even for a 6'2 guy like me.

Posted by: drew7203 at February 17, 2005 01:41 PM (CBlhQ)

5 My car was an '88 Dodge Dayton with a T-top. Like you, I used to pull the tops out anytime it wasn't raining or freezing, and it saw me through my care-free years. Not sure if you had Solomon-luck, but as often as not, it rained when I took the tops out. Good times. I had to get rid of it after 9 years when Angel1 was a baby, and it kept leaking gas fumes to the interior. I was depressed, but it was a no brainer decision.

Posted by: Solomon at February 17, 2005 01:47 PM (k1sTy)

6 Mine was a black 68 mustang. V-8, 4 barrel carb and loud exhaust. Led Zeppelin (or early AC/DC and/or early whitesnake) was all that was ever played on the cheesy old tape deck. I can still close my eyes and still remember driving home from my (then) girlfriendÂ’s house in the rain, listening to "Going to California" and just feeling the melancholy in that song...

Posted by: Clancy at February 17, 2005 01:53 PM (JxYJc)

7 Wow. You wrote that so well, it felt like MY memory. Personally, I don't ever have my cars long enough to keep to many memories, however, the first car I owned.... There's always a special place in your heart for your first car.

Posted by: Rebecca at February 17, 2005 02:00 PM (ZHfdF)

8 I've been in the market for a new car. I've looked at everything. For some reason though my eye was always stuck on the VW Cabrio. Maybe this is a sign I should take the leap. Do you think that's an impractical choice, being that I live in minnesota and I'd only be able to have the top down 4/5 months out of the year?

Posted by: suzanne at February 17, 2005 02:43 PM (GhfSh)

9 I'm only on my second car, but I miss my first one terribly. It was a 96 Honda Civic Hatchback. And the color? Midori Green Pearl. It had so much personality. It summed me up in one bold statement. I have so many good and bad memories in that car I still, four years later, get a tear in my eye when I see one on the street - which is rare, as not many people were insane enough to buy a car the obnoxious color of melon liquor.

Posted by: amy t. at February 17, 2005 03:41 PM (zPssd)

10 My sister bought a red Karman Ghia when she got her license. After one small fender-bender she gave up driving. My mom then drove the car until it gave out. Then she bought another one, a light blue convertible, from a neighbor. She drove that car everywhere, and even stuffed three of her five kids in it at one time. Eventually, the floor rusted out and she junked it. But it was a fun little tin can of a car.

Posted by: Milly at February 17, 2005 04:52 PM (o8hq+)

11 Lovely post, Helen. Makes me want a convertible. First car was a Honda Civic 4 door, eminently practical, not so sexy, but it was mine. I remember the long, lonely commutes that were relieved by bouts of singing along with the radio and CD player. Currently driving a Subaru WRX wagon, which is powerful, and fun, but brings out aggressive aspects of my mood and driving that I (and my wife) are not fond of. If only they sold the Accord estate in the US.

Posted by: Barnaby at February 17, 2005 06:03 PM (iek4G)

12 Love your blog, oh what cars say about us! Proud owner of a rusting 92 Toyota Tercel myself.

Posted by: Juls at February 18, 2005 12:35 AM (9aRbg)

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