I’ve had a few cars starting with a ’73 red Datsun, bought with a Chargex card, as it was known at the time. The first weekend I had it, on a drive to Jackson’s Point, it stalled. I had it towed to the nearest garage. It was a picky car—didn’t like to get wet, shut down at red lights in the rain. I didn’t blame it; no one likes getting wet. Then came a brand new 1981 silver Citation—a lazy car. It wouldn’t wake up in the mornings, especially in the winter. It only started by putting a stick in the carburetor. It went back to the dealer many times but they couldn’t fix the problem.
I gave up on the Citation and bought a second-hand 1970s Acadian. I soon found out there was a trick to starting it: put it in neutral, push it while running long side and steering then jump it turn the ignition and ram it into drive. Not safe so I moved on to a Pontiac Sunbird station wagon. A great car, no complaints about it, except the rack on the roof. For days I heard something rattling around. I finally found out what was making the noise. I had left my son’s baby bottle on the roof. It rolled back and forth between the racks. Once after a barbeque I left a paper plate with a piece of pie on top. I remembered it when I got home and hoped it didn’t smash into someone’s window shield. For some reason, I bought a blue Buick known as the Bu-ICK. Every once in awhile it hiccupped, backfired and black smoke flew out of the tail pipe. A condition that was unfixable. A Renault sounded like a good idea. Something different, I thought. Except, I had to learn to drive standard. I burnt rubber every time I drove off in first gear. My sons requested that I walk them and not drive them to elementary school. The squealing tires embarrassed them especially when I took off like a bullet at a traffic light. Once two young men thought I wanted to race them so, they revved up their engine and waved as they sped past me. That was short lived. A Ford Tempo came next. That car screamed whenever I turned it on or pressed on the gas pedal or turned a corner. No one could fix it. Like everything in life it was a good thing and a bad thing. I left the car doors unlocked, and I didn’t have to close the windows in the summer. I had a built in car alarm. If anyone stole it, they would have left it at the side of the road the minute they heard it screech. In the end, the bottom rusted away. I have to admit I felt a little sad as I watched it being towed away to the car cemetery. That’s when the red Chevrolet came into my life. For some reason no one could ever figure out, it had it’s own weather system inside the car. In the winter I drove with an ice rink under my feet in my mother’s fur coat. Sometimes it was cloudy and foggy, and it even rained and snowed from inside the roof. It eventually rusted away, and I inherited a green Pontiac Sunfire. A nice car but too low on the road for me, and the mat kept getting stuck around the gas pedal which made slowing down impossible.
Now I drive a 2012 red Yaris. I love it. I’ve had it for four years. It made a little squeal the other day. Not loud, just enough to make me panic. No way was I driving a car that screamed as it if was being murdered, not again. So, I rushed it off to the dealer. “Not to worry,” said the service technician, “we’ll fix her up.” It turned out the drive belt needed a slight adjustment. So far so good, no screeching, or hiccups or fog—I think I’ll stay with it.