| The
cars in my life have never been perfect, but I can dream
By Sarah West
December 5, 2005 | I
always hated getting gas in the Malibu. I flipped down
the license plate, unlocked the gas cap with a key,
and kneeled on the hard cement, holding the pump handle
the entire time. Mom made the mistake once of not holding
the gas pump in. It fell out and gas sprayed everywhere.
Growing up, my family always only
had one car that worked, and usually two others that
were broken, idly sitting in the over-crowded garage
or driveway. Being the youngest of eight kids, car availability
was a challenge. We had a station wagon with wood paneling
on the side, with two mini seats that folded out of
the floor in the very back. I had to sit there with
my four older brothers while my three sisters got the
cushy padded seat behind Mom and Dad. This same station
wagon got the ugliest car award in the yearbook at Woods
Cross High when three of my siblings went there.
I remember waiting in anticipation
the day my parents finally went out to buy a new car.
I peered out the front window in excitement and when
I spotted a shiny red and white striped Chevy Beauville
van coming up the street I ran outside. If I was older
I know at that moment I would've been dreading driving
that car.
Everyone who was able to drive it
put at least one dent in it, except for Rebecca, the
perfect child. But Dave's dent took first place by a
landslide. He wasn't supposed to drive after he got
his wisdom teeth out because of his medication, but
he intimidated Jon into giving him the keys. His dent
took up the entire right side, preventing anyone from
entering any of the doors on that side. That left the
drivers door and the swinging doors in the back as the
only ones that worked. I dreaded the days Mom drove
car pool. Piling out of the back door, people stared
as Mom dropped us off at Mueller Park Junior High.
The first memory I have of riding
in a car was also the last time I rode in the Malibu
for a very long time. It was Mom's first car, a 1967
Chevy Malibu with tan paint. It broke and needed a new
engine, so it was housed in the garage until I was a
senior, when my brother Tim decided to put his mechanic
skills to the test. He got it running and, in hopes
of re-painting it, sanded the right side exposing the
grey color underneath. That left me to drive the Malibu,
half tan, half grey, dented, and huge with only an AM
radio to high school.
The car has been a symbol of independence
from my parents over the years. My first friend to get
a license was Brett. I quit coming home for curfew at
midnight and we'd go on road trips to Park City often.
His off-white station wagon, "The Beast," was a temporary
triumph over my parent's rules, until I got grounded,
which was a lot.
The cars that have been through my
wrath have been a Honda Accord, Suzuki Samurai, Ford
Aerostar, Chevy Malibu, Volkswagen Fox, Volkswagen Jetta
and currently I drive a champagne colored 1996 Buick
Regal. That's right, a "grandma car." But I don't care.
It gets me to work, school, shopping, and to my boyfriend's
house an hour away.
When I am able to buy a car I actually
want to drive, I'll be like a little kid in Toys 'R'
Us, with so many choices. No more grandma cars, no more
dented cars with peeling paint, and no more cars with
windshields that freeze...on the inside.
NW
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