It started with my first, a 1973 Ford Pinto. My father
bought it for me, brand spanking new right out of the dealership for $1995.00.
I named it Spot. I name most all my cars because that way I can form a personal
relationship with them and when I talk to them, which I do, I can call them by
name. We have often joked that my parents bought me a pinto – they must not
have liked me very much, but when they bought it, it was a simple vehicle,
which could get me from home to school and work and back home again. (Barring
any rear-end collision explosions, of course.) My boyfriend taught me how to
change the oil, the filters and the sparkplugs. It had an AM/FM radio which was
all a girl could ask for in 1973. Spot was my new best friend and eventually
replaced my beloved Spellbound (who was a wonderful thoroughbred gelding) as my
confidant. I could tell Spot anything and he would never tell another soul.
When I graduated from high school, Spot was replaced by Big
Blue, a Ford F-150 cargo van whose job it was to help me get into the music
business, schlepping me, and whatever amps, speaker systems and microphones,
from lousy bar gig to lousy bar gig.
Blue was followed by a short affair with a Yamaha 650
motorcycle and a Pontiac Trans Am, with the one supposed to supplant the lousy
gas mileage of the other, however in Michigan the motorcycle season is very
short.
In order to save money, the next car was a real lemon – a Pontiac
Sunbird. Even though I bought it new, it was one nightmare after another with
this car, but I did learn all about head gaskets before I traded it in after
making a stink in the showroom of the nearest Pontiac dealership.
The aforementioned (I just really wanted to use that word)
was followed by one of my favorite cars, Jean Luc Pontiac, a Gran Prix. It was
maroon with a plush interior and all the bells and whistles a girl could ask
for in 1979. Jean Luc again became my confidant, and he and I went everywhere together.
He saw me through my artist management days and my divorce before he was
replaced by an actual French car – Pierre Renault Le Car.
Pierre saw me though the ‘between husbands’ era, and was eventually
replaced by the quintessential soccer-mom vehicle, a Chevy Astro, which was supplemented
by a Pontiac Fiero (otherwise known as “Daddy’s pretty car”). I drove that mini-van into the ground with
something like 165K miles over a period of 10 years, until we had a close
encounter with Bambi on I-69 in the middle of the night, and then we moved to
Germany.
Buying a used car with automatic transmission in Germany is
not as easy as one might think and that adventure is a story in itself. When I
picked up our BMW 325i at the dealership, the salesman asked me, “Are you going
to be okay driving this? It has a very powerful engine.” I responded, “Hey, I’m
from Detroit!” I have never been a nervous driver, but at first I was in
Germany. The streets are narrow, the hills are steep, and the rules are just
different enough that I wasn’t comfortable for a few months. But driving in
Germany was a joy and Forrest (a reference to its deep green color) took very
good care of us – even though my 10 year old tried to back it down the stairs
to our house.
When we returned from Europe, my boyfriend thought we should
again have a mini-van. Over my protests, we bought a very fancy Ford Aerostar.
It was okay, lots of bells and whistles, but I never formed an attachment to
it. Actually, I hated driving it. It was huge and the kids were growing up and
most of the time I was in it by myself. We did take a couple of trips in it,
but we could have rented something big for those occasions and that would have
been fine by me.
When I had enough of
that behemoth, I went to the Honda dealership and bought an Accord. Even though
my boyfriend paid for it, it has always been my car. The license plate said “MQUEEN”,
so there would be no doubt as to whose car this was. It has seen me through a
lot over the past 8 years, even though I wasn’t able to drive it much for
several years.
To make what has turned out to be a long story shorter, a
few years ago I inherited my father’s car, a Buick LeSabre. (Yes, the dreaded “grandma-car”.)
I named it Horatio, in honor of my dad,
who would use that name from time to time when describing any ‘unnamed’ male
person. My dad loved his car and when my boyfriend accidentally parked it
beneath an SUV on the freeway this summer, I felt the loss of the man more than
the loss of the car.
So now I have my Accord back and driving it is like pulling
on a favorite pair of jeans.
My first car was a 1955 Chevy that I named Hiram that I bought used from an Uncle for $150. I sold it to my brother a few years later for $100. After he drove it for a couple of years, he sold it for parts for probably $350.
ReplyDeleteHiram was the only car I ever named. Good memories.