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As the calendar flips from one month to the next, we make note of milestones that have impacted our lives over the years and decades.
Most, like weddings, graduations, anniversaries and birthdays are joyous. Others, the death of a family member, passing of a pet or a divorce, are hard to get over.
Even inanimate objects can stir emotions and recollections, perhaps even teach us lessons about life or ourselves. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about the vehicles that have crossed my path since earning that coveted driver’s permit at 14 years old.
This fixation likely stems from my trusted Jill, a red 2005 Ford Escape, which will reach a well-earned 220,000 miles by the time you read this. Her aches and pains of old age as she nears retirement, strangely, make me sad.
Having a special attachment to cars is odd because I was never a gearhead like my childhood friends, Kurt, Kent and Kraig. To my amazement, the brothers could shout out the make and model of a car or truck at first glance, whether it was a Chevy El Camino, Dodge Charger, Pontiac GTO or Ford Falcon XT.
One fall morning in the early 1970s, the windshield of our family car was frosted over as I prepared to drive to high school football practice. In a bit of a rush, I scraped about a 12-inch square of ice to see through. No time to clear off the entire windshield.
While making a turn less than a block away, I smashed into a neighbor’s unseen parked car. Without checking on the damage, panic set in and I quickly raced to practice. Soon, guilt followed, compelling me to return home.
Mom must have had a premonition or perhaps a call from the neighbor, because she was waiting at the door. After my confession, she said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
The episode was never mentioned again, but maybe a lesson was learned about honesty, owning up to mistakes and not taking short cuts.
During my high school years, I hitched rides with friends or borrowed family vehicles to get around. My dad used an Econoline van for his job. It was fun to drive, but not exactly a chick-magnet while dragging main street, honking at friends.
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A 1972 Chevy Nova was the first car of my very own. Heading home from college one dark autumn evening, the headlights were getting dimmer and dimmer. Would I have to spend the night parked alongside the road until the sun came up? Thankfully, I made it to Lewistown, Montana, and found a gas station/garage just about to close.
The young attendant quickly deduced the alternator was the problem, found a replacement on a shelf and, within an hour or so, it was fixed. What are the odds of having such luck these days? I wrote him a check, about $70 as I recall, and I was on my way.
Speaking of checks, shortly after getting married, Patty discovered I carelessly flung the checkbook on the floorboard of our Nissan Pulsar. Rather annoyed, Patty said in a no-arguing-about-it tone, “I’ll keep it.” 40+ years later, Patty is still our money-manager.
Part of me feels guilty when she’s paying bills late at night, but mostly I’m grateful she handles the finances and not this C-minus math student.
None of our vehicles were extravagant, except perhaps a conversion van we splurged on. It was complete with a bed, table and television, perfect for a family with three young kids. What wasn’t perfect was when we got home from the dealer and discovered it was too tall for the garage. Do your research, brainiac. Another lesson learned?
We debated whether to return it, but soon learned the van was a godsend. Shortly after taking possession, our 9-year-old daughter, Paige, broke her femur and was in a body cast for six weeks. Paige would have been homebound, but the van enabled us to get out of the house.
I would lift her up by the cast and shoulders, haul her to the van, place her on the bed and off we would go. Among our many excursions was to an Albuquerque Dukes game. We parked in the drive-in area in the outfield, placed a blanket on the sloped-grassy hill, and Paige watched the game from there.
There have been a dozen or more vehicles over the years that have stories to tell. A Plymouth Horizon that left me clutching a passenger after the door flew open on a turn.
A pickup, “Big Red,” that smoked so badly I would turn it off at a drive-thru window to keep from gassing employees. Lobo basketball player Kenny Thomas told me, “A man of my stature,” should be driving something classier.
The exit at Budaghers is a reminder of where the Mercury Topaz broke down. I still miss the heated seats of “Bravey,” an Oldsmobile Bravada, plus there’s a tale to tell, some other time, about why we bought an Aerostar instead of a Caravan.
Perhaps thoughts of a certain vehicle trigger other memories. What car were you in when hearing a favorite song on the radio for the first time or cruising down a beloved street that conjures recollections of a bygone era?
After all those miles, it seems treasonous to admit that a particular vehicle is a favorite over the others. Between us, the Escape, named for 1960s actress Jill St. John, stands out. What a companion Jill has been for 15 years, with trips for jobs to Montana, South Dakota, New Mexico, back to Montana and finally, home to the Land of Enchantment.
She was often packed to the gills, but with the windshield always clear. Lesson learned from that frosty morning. With the sights and sounds of the holiday season upon us, impossible to ignore, it might be a good time to remember not to dwell on the end of the road ahead but to embrace the journey that got us here.
