Driving began for me when I almost drove Daddy's tractor into a tree. Though it marked my first and last time to drive a tractor, it was only the beginning of my life as a driver.
I would be granted a driver's license at the tender age of 16, much to Daddy's relief since he probably felt personally responsible for being the one who gave me lessons in the drive-way. Out on those country roads only traveled by those we knew who lived near-by, with deer springing out onto the path of drivers, especially at dawn and at dusk, driving was an adventure every time.
Needing transportation for my summer jobs, I would drive the family Buick. One summer Daddy bought a creamy yellow Mercury Marquis for me to drive up and down the road. It was a boat of a car that would carry me appropriately enough to my job as a waitress at the local yacht club. This car really sailed as I often would let it go, having to brake to slow it down. It also had a great radio that I could listen to the Beach Boys turned up loudly on my way to the Lake, which refers to Lake Michigan--to those who did not grow up near it.
In college most students were discouraged from having a car since the lots to park them in were miles away and there was no real need since I lived on-campus and could walk to class and to work in my dorm. I walked everywhere I went whether it was raining or not. I didn't miss having a car until it was time to come home and I would have to haul my stuff down to the bus station and ride for hours on the way back to the farm.
When I graduated from MSU and headed West, I did so in a car driven by a girl named Ardith. Her mother and I were the only passengers. Because of insurance I was not allowed to take a turn driving on the 26-hour trip straight through from East Lansing, Michigan to Denver, Colorado. I placed my life in the hands of a girl who was a friend of a friend and was happy she wasn't placing hers into mine.
Life in the suburbs of Denver was difficult without a car and though the inner-city neighborhood where I eventually moved was not considered a desirable location for most, I was happy to be able to be on foot again. Sometimes I would take the bus to Boulder to treat myself and would walk up and down the Pearl Street Mall always stopping at the Boulder Arts & Crafts Cooperative. As a bus rider I would have to be mindful of the time so as not to miss the bus back to my apartment. There would be other times when I would be running to catch a bus for work or running to catch the last bus of the evening or be stranded. It was a way of life much like it would be for someone taking the subway I imagine.
With marriage came a house and a car. But even though the Volkswagen Golf was a fine little car that we enjoyed for many years for camping and daily life, I never really got the hang of driving a stick shift and after a harrowing near-collision with a truck on a highway with me at the wheel, I decided not to drive again. And I didn't . . . for years. Living in a downtown neighborhood with bus stops everywhere allowed me to be transported without having to negotiate deer, trucks, or any other hazard of the road. I did not miss driving. At all.
By the time we had relocated to Greensboro, North Carolina, we already had one child and would soon have another. I was not working outside the home at the time and though there was a grocery store within walking distance, it was a long walk. With one baby in the stroller and the other strapped to my back, I became very THIN! I would get rides to the Mothers of Preschoolers group at the church and learned to be patient as passengers do not get to make the same decisions as those who are driving. I had to wait for others to help me and though help was often readily given, I knew the days of being without a car would come to an end.
In need of extra income, a pastor friend found a temporary job for me with a ministry. I told him I needed a car and childcare and both were forthcoming. The car, a tan 1962 Chevy Nova, had been owned by a little old lady who had kept it in excellent working condition. Because my friend is a pastor, this lady decided to donate her car to his ministry. He decided by giving me the car it was doing the Lord's work as much as anything else. The interior was in far worse shape than the rest of the car. Being on the lower end of the economic scale, I got some black and white "cow" contact paper, along with some duct tape and safety pins, and went to work on designing the inside of my beautiful car. Having the truly desirable car meant getting stopped at lights, usually by men who wanted to ask questions about my fine ride. I named her Gert after my Grandma Tate whose name was Gertha. Gert; my first car.
Gert did great until one outing on the highway when some road trash in the way of shredded truck tire pieces flew up under her causing engine failure. Fortunately I was soon met by a police officer who escorted me to my pastor friend's home so he could help me pick up my kids from preschool. I would eventually sell the car for parts much to the sadness of those who admired its retro beauty.
An early 70's Toyota Tercel in a lovely mustard gold color I named Golda became my next car as it was being sold by my mother-in-law's neighbor for a price we could almost afford, with a little help from my mother-in-law. It was easier to transport the children in and since we had by that point moved to a rental house further from downtown, it was important to have a reliable vehicle. I remember one morning putting baby Joel in the car and going back in the house to take care of one last detail. The next thing I know four-year-old Ariel is standing before me looking extremely scared. I look out to the drive-way and do not see the car! I then see it near a stand of trees at the end of the drive-way, near the railroad tracks. Ariel had wondered what that lever did. Baby Joel was none the wiser for his brief wild ride.
After borrowing a friend's minivan for a camping trip to the beach one summer, we knew with three kids and a dog it was the best practical solution for our transportation needs. One night after happily dropping our kids off at what was known at that church as Parents Night Out, we decided to skip dinner and head directly to the car dealership. There awaited a dark blue 1995 Plymouth Voyager. Again with the help of my mother-in-law, we walked out of there the proud owners of our very own minivan. It was Cinco de Mayo so we named the minivan Maya.
Maya took us everywhere for many years. She was never reliable in ice or snow but gave me a very real reason to stay home when the weather was less than sunny or cloudy. Once the paint started chipping off and the crack on the windshield continued to worsen, we began to wonder how much life she had left. When the power locks started to lock and unlock every time we turned left, we knew she was nearing her end. When the locks locked and unlocked randomly with increasing frequency, we knew she was in her death throes.
Still in need of room to cart camping gear, soccer balls and as many kids as we could find to travel with us, we would find yet another minivan. This time it would be a pale blue 2003 Dodge Caravan I would name Flo because she is the color of water, in a poetic sort of way. Her pristine windshield was soon scratched in an effort to clean the ice from it and little by little time and use are beginning to wear her down. Many days the only person taking her for a drive is me and though Flo and I go way back, I find myself thinking of other options. Minivans do not get the best gas mileage. Sorry Flo.
As my minivan days draw to a close in the next few years with the boys growing up and moving out, I think about having a vehicle to haul my art displays around in, as well as having the towing capacity for the Air Stream trailer I someday hope to purchase to be a summer home while at the Outer Banks, or for a trip up to that Lake Up North. Cars hold very little interest for me. Maybe you can't take the country out of the girl, for what I really want is a truck.
I would be granted a driver's license at the tender age of 16, much to Daddy's relief since he probably felt personally responsible for being the one who gave me lessons in the drive-way. Out on those country roads only traveled by those we knew who lived near-by, with deer springing out onto the path of drivers, especially at dawn and at dusk, driving was an adventure every time.
Needing transportation for my summer jobs, I would drive the family Buick. One summer Daddy bought a creamy yellow Mercury Marquis for me to drive up and down the road. It was a boat of a car that would carry me appropriately enough to my job as a waitress at the local yacht club. This car really sailed as I often would let it go, having to brake to slow it down. It also had a great radio that I could listen to the Beach Boys turned up loudly on my way to the Lake, which refers to Lake Michigan--to those who did not grow up near it.
In college most students were discouraged from having a car since the lots to park them in were miles away and there was no real need since I lived on-campus and could walk to class and to work in my dorm. I walked everywhere I went whether it was raining or not. I didn't miss having a car until it was time to come home and I would have to haul my stuff down to the bus station and ride for hours on the way back to the farm.
When I graduated from MSU and headed West, I did so in a car driven by a girl named Ardith. Her mother and I were the only passengers. Because of insurance I was not allowed to take a turn driving on the 26-hour trip straight through from East Lansing, Michigan to Denver, Colorado. I placed my life in the hands of a girl who was a friend of a friend and was happy she wasn't placing hers into mine.
Life in the suburbs of Denver was difficult without a car and though the inner-city neighborhood where I eventually moved was not considered a desirable location for most, I was happy to be able to be on foot again. Sometimes I would take the bus to Boulder to treat myself and would walk up and down the Pearl Street Mall always stopping at the Boulder Arts & Crafts Cooperative. As a bus rider I would have to be mindful of the time so as not to miss the bus back to my apartment. There would be other times when I would be running to catch a bus for work or running to catch the last bus of the evening or be stranded. It was a way of life much like it would be for someone taking the subway I imagine.
With marriage came a house and a car. But even though the Volkswagen Golf was a fine little car that we enjoyed for many years for camping and daily life, I never really got the hang of driving a stick shift and after a harrowing near-collision with a truck on a highway with me at the wheel, I decided not to drive again. And I didn't . . . for years. Living in a downtown neighborhood with bus stops everywhere allowed me to be transported without having to negotiate deer, trucks, or any other hazard of the road. I did not miss driving. At all.
By the time we had relocated to Greensboro, North Carolina, we already had one child and would soon have another. I was not working outside the home at the time and though there was a grocery store within walking distance, it was a long walk. With one baby in the stroller and the other strapped to my back, I became very THIN! I would get rides to the Mothers of Preschoolers group at the church and learned to be patient as passengers do not get to make the same decisions as those who are driving. I had to wait for others to help me and though help was often readily given, I knew the days of being without a car would come to an end.
In need of extra income, a pastor friend found a temporary job for me with a ministry. I told him I needed a car and childcare and both were forthcoming. The car, a tan 1962 Chevy Nova, had been owned by a little old lady who had kept it in excellent working condition. Because my friend is a pastor, this lady decided to donate her car to his ministry. He decided by giving me the car it was doing the Lord's work as much as anything else. The interior was in far worse shape than the rest of the car. Being on the lower end of the economic scale, I got some black and white "cow" contact paper, along with some duct tape and safety pins, and went to work on designing the inside of my beautiful car. Having the truly desirable car meant getting stopped at lights, usually by men who wanted to ask questions about my fine ride. I named her Gert after my Grandma Tate whose name was Gertha. Gert; my first car.
Gert did great until one outing on the highway when some road trash in the way of shredded truck tire pieces flew up under her causing engine failure. Fortunately I was soon met by a police officer who escorted me to my pastor friend's home so he could help me pick up my kids from preschool. I would eventually sell the car for parts much to the sadness of those who admired its retro beauty.
An early 70's Toyota Tercel in a lovely mustard gold color I named Golda became my next car as it was being sold by my mother-in-law's neighbor for a price we could almost afford, with a little help from my mother-in-law. It was easier to transport the children in and since we had by that point moved to a rental house further from downtown, it was important to have a reliable vehicle. I remember one morning putting baby Joel in the car and going back in the house to take care of one last detail. The next thing I know four-year-old Ariel is standing before me looking extremely scared. I look out to the drive-way and do not see the car! I then see it near a stand of trees at the end of the drive-way, near the railroad tracks. Ariel had wondered what that lever did. Baby Joel was none the wiser for his brief wild ride.
After borrowing a friend's minivan for a camping trip to the beach one summer, we knew with three kids and a dog it was the best practical solution for our transportation needs. One night after happily dropping our kids off at what was known at that church as Parents Night Out, we decided to skip dinner and head directly to the car dealership. There awaited a dark blue 1995 Plymouth Voyager. Again with the help of my mother-in-law, we walked out of there the proud owners of our very own minivan. It was Cinco de Mayo so we named the minivan Maya.
Maya took us everywhere for many years. She was never reliable in ice or snow but gave me a very real reason to stay home when the weather was less than sunny or cloudy. Once the paint started chipping off and the crack on the windshield continued to worsen, we began to wonder how much life she had left. When the power locks started to lock and unlock every time we turned left, we knew she was nearing her end. When the locks locked and unlocked randomly with increasing frequency, we knew she was in her death throes.
Still in need of room to cart camping gear, soccer balls and as many kids as we could find to travel with us, we would find yet another minivan. This time it would be a pale blue 2003 Dodge Caravan I would name Flo because she is the color of water, in a poetic sort of way. Her pristine windshield was soon scratched in an effort to clean the ice from it and little by little time and use are beginning to wear her down. Many days the only person taking her for a drive is me and though Flo and I go way back, I find myself thinking of other options. Minivans do not get the best gas mileage. Sorry Flo.
As my minivan days draw to a close in the next few years with the boys growing up and moving out, I think about having a vehicle to haul my art displays around in, as well as having the towing capacity for the Air Stream trailer I someday hope to purchase to be a summer home while at the Outer Banks, or for a trip up to that Lake Up North. Cars hold very little interest for me. Maybe you can't take the country out of the girl, for what I really want is a truck.
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