1.
I’ve owned four vehicles at different times of my life, all trusted companions on the road. The first was a cough syrup green 1971 Toyota Corolla, but for me, it was beautifully verdant, a two-door standard sedan, four-speed manual with a radio and a large trunk. I could adjust the seats and turn on the heater in my own enclosed space where I viewed the world through a clear windshield. My parents had died one year apart from each other, which created a sinkhole that I nearly fell through. They’d left me a few thousand dollars. I found the only Toyota dealership at that time in Queens. After spending my inheritance, I now had to drive back to my apartment by crossing the Whitestone Bridge during rush hour traffic. I’d driven only a few times before, including the one time I took my driving test. My hands stuck on the wheel. I wasn’t convinced that other drivers would respond to my turn signals or let me merge into their lane. I was petrified, but managed to get home. Shortly afterward, I packed up my things and drove across the United States. My Toyota Corolla took me from the Bronx to Pennsylvania down to Cape Hatteras, through Appalachia and into Atlanta, Hannibal, Gunnison, Four Corners, the Rockies, and Las Vegas, Nevada, just like I was inside Woody Guthrie’s head. The car gave me courage. It took me to Oakland, California. One year I drove back to Oklahoma City and returned with my friend’s sister and her dog. I drove my two-door for years until the floor in the back seat rusted out and people used it as an ashtray. The car registered more than 200,000 miles on the speedometer. My neighbor bought it for $200 and crashed it several months later, which made me very sad. My car had become a part of me. I thought she deserved better treatment.
2.
I know, I know. She was just a car, but we’d spent so much time together sitting through red lights, highway traffic, all those years going to and fro. Newer cars had automatic roll-down windows, not handles that you had to roll up and down like a store awning, automatic shifts, and cassette decks. My husband was working swing and couldn’t help with the transaction. I felt traitorous, but what else could I do? My old car had stood by my side for years, but she was gone. Buying a new car was out of the question. I scanned Craigslist and located a Honda Civic Wagon four-door automatic with low miles. It was not green, but a sparkling cobalt blue. I could even walk to the owner’s house. I made an appointment, and eyed the owner suspiciously to see if he might be looking to dupe me, slowly strolled around the car to ascertain if the doors might fall off the instant I pressed the gas pedal. The man read my look. “The car is in good shape,” he said, and handed me the keys for a test drive. I got inside, the car immaculately clean, not a fingerprint on the steering wheel, not a speck of dust in the cup holder. The car had four doors, seats that folded down in the back and a large trunk I could open from the inside, great for carrying boxes or groceries. It drove without a hiccup and sailed like a blue flag. I handed the man my envelope stuffed with cash. He gave me the registration. We shook hands and I drove a few blocks home and pulled into my empty carport. I didn’t know if my the Civic would ever replace my first car, which had transported me from the East Coast to Oakland, California, but I liked its upgrades. So began my blue Honda period, driving to my kids’ schools, parking every morning before I took BART to work, going out on those rare cherished nights with my husband, although on many of those evenings, we took his car. Mine was the workhorse, grocery shopping on the weekend, community meetings, visits to friends and get-aways to Bodega Bay or Bolinas where we easily packed what we needed into its spacious trunk. Coming home from one of those trips, smoke began to steam from the hood. We exited the highway near an industrial section of Oakland where a machine shop helped us to get home. While my mechanic managed to get the Civic going again, it wasn’t the same. Everywhere I went, I kept looking for smoke, followed by another great fire that consumed me for several years..
3.
I’ve owned other cars since then, all sedans, pre-owned, or the less-preferred term “used,” four-door automatics with low mileage, hunted down on Craigslist, car lots, or dealerships with their guarantees of free maintenance for a year. All vehicles were in it for the long haul. A few had names. One of them was Lucinda, a car that I’d bought in the South where we visited bayous and ancient Indian mounds. Some years I didn’t know whom I could depend upon, but my car was always started up and took me wherever I needed to go, no questions asked. Oil changes, replacing brakes, fan belts. It was a mutual aid pact. We took care of each other. I thanked my car when I started its engine, and once again when I turned it off. I believe that the things people build are imbued with a resonant life.