Car

My first car was a Plymouth Valiant sedan; eggshell blue. It belonged to my sister- in-law, Rozie. She and my brother had moved to Brooklyn Heights and no longer needed two cars. I was the lucky recipient of this handed down vehicle. At the time, I was a college senior majoring in elementary education. I used public transportation or rode my bicycle across the BU bridge to get from my apartment on Marie Street in Cambridge to attend college on the Riverway. During my final semester, I had a student teaching job four days a week at the Runkle School in Brookline. I needed a car to transport bags of student notebooks and supplies for art projects to and from school. This car came into my life at the perfect time.

My second car was a grey Volvo sedan with red seats. My mother and I found it at a used car lot in Newport, Vermont near where my parents spent the summer. I had approached them again with my need for a car. This time I was starting my first teaching job at Milton Academy. I needed a way to get from my apartment on Magazine Street in Cambridge, a half an hour south to Milton. I fell in love with this snazzy vehicle. I didn’t even care to know the details of its past. Had it been in an accident? (probably, I later realized as it shimmied at high speeds.) Did it burn oil? (yes, I later found out as I pulled over to the side of the Southeast Expressway more than once, as smoke poured out from under the hood.)

I wanted it. My mother shrugged her shoulders, knowing it was my decision and seeing I was hooked. I drove it for many years, filling two tanks everytime I went to the gas station. One full of gas, one full of oil. It was worth it. Sometimes you have to go the extra mile for something you love.

post script. When I was married, I sold it for almost nothing to the son of a neighbor. As he drove it to college out the Mass Pike, my beloved car let out a final sigh and died. That's loyalty for you.