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May 1, 2022Liked by Suleika Jaouad

Etched forever in my memory is my older brother's 1957 green Chevy, the very definition of thick, musky smells. This hump-backed rusting metal with the rotting floorboard in the backseat had been turned over to me. And luckily, that rotten floorboard had a hole large enough for 18-year-old me to crawl through late one evening in Walla-Walla Washington, where my boyfriend and I had gone to retrieve the car. It's only key sat in the ignition of the locked car so there was no choice but to enter through the floor.

Just as my brother had no choice but to abandon it months earlier when he fled this small town without a penny and after getting a Catholic girl pregnant, much to the brittle, soaring anger of her parents. He was never to see her again, nor meet his child.

And it was out of this sad, steamy mess that I inherited my first car.

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May 1, 2022Liked by Suleika Jaouad, Carmen Radley

The Peugeot, purchased while we lived in Germany in the mid-70's, the car with no automatic steering, parallel parking while developing deltoids and biceps of steel once back in The States. No air conditioning, crank windows, total freedom with radio blasting and singing at the top of my lungs. Then, it began to backfire, which sounded like uncontrollable farting-a total embarrassment to me and to my sisters. "Can't we get a new car, Dad? This one is sooooo embarrassing!" Dad's response, "If you want another car, you'll have to earn the money to purchase it and the insurance". Reality check as I had neither. So many years later, Peugeot long gone, how did I not value the uniqueness of that vehicle and the freedom it provided even with it's internal gastrointestinal outbursts?

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May 1, 2022·edited May 1, 2022Liked by Suleika Jaouad, Carmen Radley

All I’ve ever driven is old VW Convertible Bugs.. Top down,music blasting and hair blowing in the wind is my Zen! Car is a huge part of who I am and what I’ve taught my kids about happiness and fulfillment. Fondest life memories involve “Bugee” Beach trips, singing loud with kids or traveling to see our favorite band are our families most memorable.Still doing it... Kids are 21 and 29 and for Mother’s Day we get in Bugee and go Asparagus Picking yearly.. Simplest things in life are best!!

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May 1, 2022Liked by Carmen Radley

My mother’s parents always had a white cat, a Dalmatian, and a Buick. They knew their tastes, and they knew where they cared to spend their time and attention. Changing up pet breeds and car make/models was as ludicrous as changing up their children’s names - if it worked, why change it?

For the first five, maybe seven, years of my life they drove the twelve hours to visit us. Air travel was a luxury reserved for getting to Europe, pension funds allowing. I remember the delight and comfort of seeing the latest in their Buick lineage roll into our driveway between 6:30 and 7 each morning and Grandad get out in his slacks, leather shoes, and a hat, with a box of donuts (crullers and jelly-filled!) and the Times (New York, of course!) tucked under his arm. For each visit, my sisters and I had the treat of riding in the boat-car’s backseat to McDonald’s for breakfast and time in the massive indoor playset. On the way home, Grandma would dole out sticks of Juicy Fruit from the passenger seat, her red-polished nails extending them daintily and then gripping our hands with surprising strength to make sure that the gum didn’t fall out of our reach.

When we visited them, my sisters and I would ride along on errands, relishing the space between us in the wide back seat. I would gaze over the Buick’s wide, long nose as we cruised down Mequon, WI’s steamy or slushy streets, and wonder at the wide Midwestern sky. Years later, Grandma confessed that visiting us in the years when we lived in forested mountains made her uneasy - “all those trees crowding you, you can’t see what’s out there!” The prairie, vast and reliable - like her Buick - was her home.

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when I was 15 yrs old in 1957, my dad brought home a ford convertible. wow! I learned to drive it the next year, hair flying everywhere, up & down the hills of San Francisco. I found that convertibles look real cool, but are sort of inconvenient & cold.

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May 1, 2022Liked by Carmen Radley

I loved reading that! It conjured up many different memories from the nearly five decades of my driving and more than six as a passenger. Cars do hold special places in the stories of our lives, don’t they? My brothers all had “real” sports cars like Austin Healeys, MG’s, and Triumphs but it was my first car - a red Karmann Ghia that started me on a life of loving sports cars. After several practical cars took me from HS to my thirties, my divorce prodded me to treat myself to the indulgence of a Mitsubishi 3000 GT only to soon have to trade it for a kid-friendly mini-van to satisfy the family of five I became when marrying my life partner. He surprisingly always kept in mind what I gave up and with his SSA check, decided to treat me to a Nissan 350! Today, many years after his passing and long after that amazing car, I treated myself to another sports car, a Mini-Cooper, as perhaps my last. You can take the girl out of the sports car but just can’t take the sports car out of the girl!

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May 2, 2022·edited May 3, 2022

This is wonderful! I remember my grandfather's red Chevy truck; must've been from the 70s- he called her Lizzie. The truck smelled like oil and had receipts and tools scattered everywhere. On hot days, the oil/ gasoline smell was overpowering. We would roll down the windows (with a crank- no automatic windows) and play gospel music or the talk radio. We had to step up and climb into the truck; there was no backseat so I sat right in front, often next to my grandmother. Well into his seventies and eighties, my retired grandfather still did jobs as a handyman. In the summer, I would tag along and after he finished his work, we would stop at Krispy Kremes for a treat. My grandparents would often pick me up after school in the late 80s and mid-90s, and I loved Lizzie until a classmate's snide remark made me feel ashamed of her. Once I became embarrassed, I came up with various nonsense reasons why they should not pick me up in that truck. When my grandparents realized I was ashamed of the truck, my shame at hurting their feelings outweighed my embarrassment. My always gracious grandparents moved past my nonsense and Lizzie was actually the 1st car I learned to drive. Sometimes, my grandparents would roll up, and slide over while I got into the driver's side. Then we would still go to Krispy kremes for a nice treat.

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May 3, 2022·edited May 4, 2022

I was sweet sixteen, 1960, and had already completed Beauty College during high school. That was when underprivileged kids could choose to learn a skill in school. I had big dreams of being an "Artist, Interior Designer." Earning my own money to go to college was the goal. My problem was the closest community college that offered Interior Design was 30 miles away. My Pop knew of my dreams. He had a 6th grade education and fought in WWII at 16, yet he valued education and had self-educated himself to become a Warrant Officer in the Navy. He bought me my first car, a 1947 Chevy coup, from the junk yard for $50. He fixed it up in the back alleyway and painted it a dull green with a paint brush. My Pop loved things clean and shiny. The inside was spotless, leather seats cleaned and repaired, new floorboards, windows polished. It smelled of FREEDOM to me. I attended the school and worked full-time. In my first design class I got a C- and the white, male professor said I did not have enough talent to attain my dreams. I thought about that for one minute and then thought, if my Pop became an officer without any help, encouragement, or parents, while fighting a war then I could become an Interior Designer with determination and grit. I will never forget that Chevy because it was my first taste of freedom to be me, and I never let go of my dreams. The car only lasted a couple of years, but my dreams were realized as I continued my quest. My Pop continued to supply what was needed to move forward. He never told me, his daughter, that I could not achieve my dreams because I was a girl. To him I was a “force of nature”, and he was going to make sure I had what I needed to succeed.

I designed and built my first house at 29, before formal education, the pictures of this house became my portfolio to enter a prestigious art college. Along my path to my dreams were fantastic cars. As a student, at Art Center College of Design, I learned how cars were designed in the industrial design department, I was the first group of women permitted to enter this male dominated area of design. It was exciting and challenging coming up against white, male professors who were biased against women. Women were prevented from graduating with honors because several professors did not permit women to present their projects in class and were automatically given a C-. At one point I confronted one of the worst professors and he permitted me to exhibit my work and then he called it a fake and gave me an F. Thankfully, Title9 came into being. I was no longer a youngster, I had two children and a cute red BMW. Nothing was going to stop me. I remembered Pop's stories of WWII and his courage at Pearl Harbor, so I started a petition that every student in the college signed, and I presented it to the president of the college, citing the law. This act of courage changed the way women were treated at the college, and I and my fellow women classmates all graduated with honors and exhibited our work equally. The cherry on the cake was the worst professor was instructed to give all women a B+ and then he was fired. The fun part was the party we all had when we heard he was fired. All student’s male, female, LGBQT+ celebrated by drinking, dancing, and singing around campus. Arms linked in solidarity.

My Pop died and he never got to meet my soul mate, Peter, or see the 26 custom post and beam houses I designed and built or the affordable housing community in Colorado, I created with the love of my life, Peter, which the town built. What Pop saw in his 16-year-old daughter was determination and talent. He gave me the wheels, literally and metaphorically, to achieve my dreams. Every time I see an old fixed up Chevy I think of Freedom and Pop and a big smile comes across my face and my eyes tear up. Thank you, Warrant Officer Robert Bruce Reeder, my dear Pop.

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My grandmother's 1964 Dodge Dart was always, in my mind, brand new and immaculate - the way she kept it - even after it passed first through my brother's hands and then mine, during our respective senior years in high school. The Dart would have a lot of stories to tell from those high school days, but I prefer to remember it the way it was when my grandmother drove the 30 miles from Houston to our house to visit on Sundays. It was pale green on the inside, slightly darker on the outside, and it smelled always like her Clorets gum. She drove me and my brother to Sunday school, the two of us in the back seat with our dog Queenie between us (my parents didn't let the dog in our car unless she was going to the vet, but grandmas always let the rules go), dressed up and hot and impatient for that part of the day to be over.

When she picked us up, she drove around town playing a game we called "getting lost." She slowed at every stop sign and waited for us to yell "POTS!" - stop spelled backwards - pretending she could only stop once we said the word. If we said "stop" she acted as though she was going on through the stop sign, slamming on the brakes hard enough for us to collapse giggling onto the carpeted floor. We took turns saying "turn right" "turn left" and she pretended she had no idea where we were, although somehow she always found our way home.

While she owned and operated the Dart, it was a magical space of make-believe and escape from the confines of our everyday lives. Once it was mine, I cherished the memories but not enough to conserve them. I got into and thankfully, out of, a lot of trouble in that Dodge Dart, and finally sold it in 1982, after grad school.

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I had a used gold Volvo station wagon. In our town, the local taxi service (Freedom Taxi, Derry, NH )was just several Volvos, the owner, an older gentleman, had a small garage where he did repairs. When I’d need a repair, I’d hang out with him, maybe hand him some tools, maybe stare into the engine as he gave me his diagnosis. He had some junk Volvo’s he’d used for parts to keep the price down.

My kids referred to the car as Frankenstein with all its “new” parts. The third row facing backward offered a good space for the kids to read or have fun. When it was time for the kids to learn to drive, it wasn’t so cool…. A “mom” car. It was a solid tank. Wish I still had it.

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When I woke up o the morning of my 16th birthday, my father told me he was getting me the car of my dreams. He told me that morning he called three dealerships: Cadillac, the Mercedes and Plymouth. Which ever one got to our first was the one I would get!

I waited on the doorstep to see which would come first! Dreaming of those Cadillac and Mercedes!

Well, it was the Plymouth.

Somehow the others never showed…had he called them and told them it was too late..or…???

Anyway I loved that first car--a white Plymouth convertible with blue interior! It did mean freedom and generosity--I took my friends everywhere!!

I drove it till it dropped!

At 60 I finally got my dream car--a white Mercedes! By the time I got it, it was already 25 years old!

I named it Cool Breeze and

I plan to drive it till I drop!

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Your momma, the lovely chauffeur. Suleika, your car stories make me smile.

This prompt... thinking about my dad's gray Checker with the pull-down seats -- five of us kids crammed in the backseat.

Thinking of my first car.. a Chevy Camaro, blasting the song Come To Me by France Joli.

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I needed a car at college junior year to be able to get to the school where I would be doing my teacher training - Dad found an old F85 Oldsmobile that I would have for many years. That summer before I was back at college, I was in that car every day going to my summer job and doing errands for my Mom. I had never had so much alone time, living in a very small home (with one very small bathroom) for the 6 of us in my family. My F85 Olds provided a place for my mind to think through my life in many ways that were new to me. By the time I got into my car to head to school for my junior year, I knew I wanted to change my major, which I did. Now I didn't need a car at school, and felt badly that my Dad had spent the money, and that my Mom would be disappointed in my decision not to become a teacher. I explained to them both how in the freedom of my car I came to understand that I needed to change my path. Dad replied, "Then I expect you to work hard on that new path and make the car money spent worth it!"

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About a year ago I had to leave my first car, Salsa (a red Prius), at a car dealership because the cost of repairs was over 20x her value. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be taking her home so I spent the morning clearing things out into a bag. It was like a Time Capsule...a little journal from when I was a kid driving in the backseat, a blank car accident form from my drivers ed class when I got my license, notes from my dad on how to restart the battery, movie tickets from university, and crumpled maps from road-trips across the country, moves, travels with various loves. It was exactly the closure I needed though I 100% still cried when I handed over the keys...

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I sometimes wish I can control certain memories in a mind vault so I can only access them when I want to instead of re-living them at inopportune times when a different sensory gets involved. There's a certain smell that comes to mind and its undeniable in its origin and its lasting effects.

My father decided to take his family from city life in Cleveland to a more rural area in Ohio (completely against my mom's wishes) and gave us 5 acres with horses, goats, rabbits and a menagerie of ducks an geese on a never ending dirt road. It was at most times any child's perfect dream. My father (who I may say was the smartest man I had ever known -2 Masters, a Lt. Col. in the US Army and and also all around Jedi Master of Duct Tape), was quite adept to learning how to deal with this way of life quickly but of course putting his own touches in most areas. There was one fail, which leads me to the 1976 Ford Pinto. Now if you remember anything about the 70's and Ford Pinto's, the news of that time was that they had a reputation for catching on fire. Except ours didn't, it was my father who caught on fire.

In this rural area you didn't have garbage pick up, you had to burn or bury you garbage and this house came with a fire pit of sorts about a 1000 ft. from the house which is where we burned what we couldn't repurpose. We actually did compost back then because we had all had gardens so it was more the glass, cans, etc.) in the pit. Again, I'll reiterate, this brilliant man thought to speed up the process, he would pour gasoline on the fire - for what purpose at the time he didn't say. My brother and I were watching Saturday morning cartoons when we heard a boom. I went to look out the back window and saw my father running towards the house and as he ran closer, he yelled at me to turn the shower on cold water. I did and ran back to the door and held it open as he ran passed me. I can't describe the smell of burning flesh but it is forever ingrained since that awful moment. He calmly asked me to get my brother into clothes and to start the car. We all got into the car and he drove himself to the hospital that was 30 minutes away. He told us to crack the back windows slightly (later on finding out the the breeze hurt him even more but the smell of his skin was so jarring that he didn't want to scare us more) and I tried my best to keep our crying to a muted level. We held his belt loops and took him into the ER where he ended up having second and third degree burns on his entire upper body and literally looked like a mummy when he was done being bandaged up.

I remember trying to air out the Ford Pinto when we got it back home so, so many times. I wanted to get rid of the smell that scarred that day for us all. I scrubbed the interior down with different products hoping that something would work. My parents would tell me that they couldn't smell anything and it was okay, that I could stop. But I couldn't - I kept smelling the combination of my father from that day, along with a burning tar asphalt like smell that every time there is road repairs, brings me right back to that day in that Ford Pinto. Still, to this day, 45+ years later.

That car brought my dad to the hospital where he survived that day. That car will never be that negative connotation that its associated with in its history. Even though the don't make Pintos anymore, I have (subconsciously I think) continued to drive Ford's throughout my life - no matter what, that Ford Pinto was a chariot of sorts, safely transporting a burning man to the ER. It will always be that hero in that horrible memory.

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There are so many car/truck memories & smells, sounds, highways flooding in after reading this that I’ve decided to write about a different vehicle each day this week🚘🚙🛵🚖 ! The where you were headed, the stuck in the snow, the hitchhiking & road trips before seat belts & reliable radios! This will be fun to conjure up.

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