Did you know that April is National Car Care Month? In that light, here’s a question for you: What’s the all-time favorite car you’ve ever owned? My first car was a yellow Chevelle. I was sixteen, and the car may have been almost as old. I can’t say she was my favorite, but I was fond of her. The first week I owned her, I almost set her on fire. If you surmise I was showing her off, you’d be right. There I was, cruising my friends around town, wind whipping at my blond hair, Jim Croce crooning from the sound track. Suddenly Charlie Borchard called from the back seat, “Uh...Jannie, we have a problem.” (These may not have been his exact words. I just remember that Charlie was a mellow guy, definitely not an alarmist.) Someone else in back—Bob Johns? or maybe Joe Ruthig?—was a bit louder and more demonstrative. Their words, “Pull over, Janet!” caught my attention, and I heeded. The problem? Ash coming off my cigarette was blowing from outside my driver’s window back into the car through Charlie’s passenger window behind me. As poor Charlie batted the ash, a hot ember had engaged with some loose papers underneath my seat. They say where there’s smoke there’s fire. They are correct. Other memories of my Chevelle are distant but vivid. She hydroplaned like a crazy lady on roller skates. I learned to avoid puddles. I also learned to stay calm and off the brakes when water couldn’t be avoided. Speaking of brakes, the Chevelle had brakes that screeched like a banshee, especially when jammed. I discovered this the day a friend and I decided to skip psychology class. My mom was working, or so I thought, but as we drove nearer my house, we saw Mom’s car backing out of the driveway. I wanted her not to see me so, instinctively, I hit the brakes. Screech!!!!!!! Talk about getting busted in plain sight. In spite of my love-hate relationship with her, I’m sad to say, the Chevelle died ahead of her time and by my hand. I failed to change her oil. That is not a good thing. It will, as I can attest, blow an engine, causing certain death. Through the years, I’ve had a number of cars. In college, I nailed an 8-point buck while driving a peach-colored Monza. In early adulthood, Rice and I, white-knuckled, brought our first born home from the hospital tucked snug in her car seat in the back seat of a navy blue Citation. These days, I drive a diesel-fueled VW Passat. She’s black, rides smoothly, and gets excellent mileage. Her name is Adele, and, aesthetically, she’s quite lovely. Some of you might think she’s my favorite car ever. You would be wrong.
The all-time favorite car that I’ve ever owned was probably not really a car at all. The Tank was a boxy black Ford Aerostar minivan that drove like a truck. How excited the kids were the first night we drove it around the subdivision to show off our “new” purchase. How mortified they would become, years later, when The Tank became the vehicle in which they learned to drive.
During its hay day, The Tank served us well. It carried us to the beach and back on more spring break trips than I can remember. It transported our son’s cello trio—all three teenaged boys and their instruments—to and from practices, tryouts, and gigs. It provided rides for a slew of our daughters’ soccer buddies—and their gear—to and from practices, tryouts, and games. The Tank even managed to warm things up in the bedroom for Rice and me.
How, you ask? I’ll tell you.
One night the ringing phone jarred us awake a bit after midnight. The phone was on Rice’s side of the bed, so I listened curiously to his half of the conversation. “Yes, Officer, we do own a Ford Aerostar.” “Yes, she has our permission to drive it.” “Thank you, sir, I appreciate your checking.” Then, I kid you not, the man hung up the phone and rolled over to go back to sleep. In fairness, he was still half-asleep. I, on the other hand, was not. I jumped out of bed, flush, determined to learn what in the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks was going on.
Long story short: Our underage daughter was caught drinking that night. She blamed it on The Tank, which looked “sketch” parked on the street of her friend’s upscale neighborhood. Rice and I agreed. The Tank is what caught the attention of police during a routine neighborhood drive-through. The officers had noticed The Tank parked haphazardly, unlocked, with a full bottle of Jägermeister in the passenger seat. They’d also noticed that The Tank sat in front of a house with a big ol’ picture window. Looking through that window was like gazing onto a well-lit stage. On that stage, three teen-aged fools sat at a table, yucking it up, a case of Bud light at their fingertips. The good news is, we all survived that night. Yes, even our daughter. God love her.
We continued to drive The Tank for a decent stretch of time after that night. Toward the end, her air conditioning failed. She started to fall apart. We often couldn’t fix her, as Ford no longer made her or her parts. Eventually, we had to let her go in peace.
Here’s the thing: Despite her boxiness, our kids all learned to drive her. Despite her sketchy façade, she got us safely from place to place. Sure, The Tank did tank. But not before she carried her weight in swimsuits and boogie boards, in cellos and soccer gear, in Jägermeister and who-knows-what-else? What a glorious ride she provided in her day. Despite the fact that she wasn't really a car at all, The Tank may be the all-time favorite car I’ve ever owned.
How ‘bout you? What’s yours?
Cheers! J
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