Sara Says - First car can build character

Preparing for our new driver has been all-consuming lately, especially since he will be getting my car in September and I have been working on finding a new one for myself. As it stands, my current car is taken over more often than not by my tall, long-legged son who is constantly changing my seat and mirror settings. Not that I don’t like being driven around every now and then; I do. But I also like to be able to gasp and grab the side of the car door when I feel like my life might come to an abrupt end without upsetting the less-than-experienced driver behind the wheel. I’m kidding (only sort of). He is a decent driver and has already clocked a lot of miles on the road, including several drives through downtown Atlanta when visiting my family. Living in the south, there’s no more valuable driving experience than that. He’s actually clocked more time behind the wheel in the city than I ever did at his age; and I grew up there.

While teaching my child to drive brings back a flood of memories from when and how I was taught to drive (I’m fairly certain I never told either of my parents to “chill” after I nearly ran us off the road, but I suppose that’s another topic for another day), researching vehicles and trying to decide what would be the best one to drive next has caused me to reflect a great deal on the first car I drove when I turned 16.

Everyone has a story about their first car and I am no exception. It’s not the best story from where I sit, but according to my father, it’s a character-building one that I should feel lucky to be able to share. He’s probably right, but if you ask me, it’s also an accurate tale of how the middle child is often treated; and possibly when, on a subconscious level, my desire to never spawn a middle child of my own took root.

When my sister, who is five years older than me, began driving, she was given a cute white Toyota Camry. It wasn’t new, but it had a sunroof and navy leather interior and one of those automatic seatbelts that ran on a track when you opened and closed the door. So cool. And perfect for a new teenage driver. My brother, who is ten years younger than me (that’s 15 years between my sister and my brother, if anyone is doing the math), was given a zippy, new-ish charcoal Pontiac Vibe when he began driving. What’s important to note here is that these two cars were purchased with my siblings and their upcoming driver status in mind, maybe a year or so before each got their license.

When I began driving, however–five years after my sister and 10 years before my brother in the summer of 1999–a car was handed down to me after my mom had driven it for nearly a decade. It was a Mercury Grand Marquis of nondescript color (Was it gray? Was it silver? Gold? No one could be certain), bought right off the lot in 1992. If you’re thinking, “Wait, isn’t that what police officers used to drive?” Well, you are correct, good reader. My first car was essentially a cop car.

With a V8 engine under the hood and a backseat that could rival any king size bed, the beast of a care affectionately earned the slightly off-color nickname “Shaggin’ Wagon” from some of my more creative friends. The Grand Marquis was a sight to behold with her peeling paint and capacity to take up every inch of lane on the road. At 16, I barely stood over 5-feet-tall and was still years away from breaking 100 pounds. I was tiny. The Grand Marquis was not. I felt like my complaint of not being able to see over the steering wheel, much less the gargantuan hood of the car, was a valid one. No matter, said my dad. He instructed me to simply “feel the road” as I drove. And there was more sound advice where that came from.

The Grand Marquis had a mysterious oil leak that was never remedied. As such, it was imperative that I carry two to three quarts of oil in the massive trunk and add some to the engine every other time I got gas. I’m not sure if I was the only one of my girlfriends who knew what a dipstick was, where to find it and what to do with it, but I feel confident there weren’t many of us. I didn’t bother finding out; that didn’t seem like a club I wanted to be an active member of back then. That was certainly not the most embarrassing aspect of that car, though.

Shortly after I began driving my car, the little silver button I would push on the inside of my door to open the gas tank stuck to my finger and popped right off. I can’t recall if I told anyone about it at the time, but no one helped me find a solution and it did end up posing a serious problem when I was running on fumes and needed to fill up in a bad way. Somehow, at the eleventh hour, I happened upon a lever in the trunk of my car which miraculously opened the gas tank. Success!

Of course that meant that every single time I got gas, I had to pop my trunk open in order to do so. Not that big of a deal, you might be thinking. And it really wasn’t. Until the gas station peanut gallery began to weigh in every time I stepped out of my vehicle to pump gas: “Honey, I think you opened your trunk by mistake,” or “You pushed the trunk button instead of the gas button.” And then, because I just couldn’t stand to let random strangers think I was a very young, very dumb blonde girl, I would take the time to explain to these well-meaning busy bodies why I had to open my trunk to get gas. And let’s not forget that I also had to open the hood and check the oil half the times I stopped at a gas station.

In addition to the peeling paint, extra large body style and time-consuming trips to the pump, the gears in the windows stopped working, one-by-one. The first time it happened, my parents got it fixed. But after it happened again, and to a different window, they gave up. Each time it happened, though, the window was stuck in the down position. Ever the problem solver, my dad man-handled the offending windows closed, then secured them in place with clear packing tape. Not as clear as, say, a window, but at least he didn’t use duct tape. Not only could I never roll my windows down after that, my drive-thru window days were also over. In rare cases, much like the airhead who popped her trunk to get gas, I would simply open my door a bit to give and receive my order at a fast food restaurant.

Still, the Grand Marquis had some redeeming qualities, too. For instance, driving on the interstate was a breeze; anyone in front of me would make an effort to get out of my way after seeing what I’m sure they thought was an undercover police officer in their rearview. Furthermore, I can still parallel park like a champ.

When I was a football trainer in high school, one of our linemen tore his ACL at practice. He refused an ambulance, but medical care was necessary. He was a larger fellow, who needed to stretch his leg out while being transported. And guess who had a large enough vehicle to accommodate his needs: Shaggin’ Wagon to the rescue! At the request of the coaches, who all drove trucks or SUVs smaller than my sedan, I drove my injured friend to meet his probably very confused mother at the nearest hospital.

Speaking of massive size, do you know what can fit in the trunk of a Grand Marquis? Two kegs, that’s what. I learned that fun little trick while I was at Auburn University, though I rarely drove my own vehicle during my time on the Plains. I didn’t need to. There was far less embarrassment riding with either my roommate or my boyfriend, both of whom drove more normal cars for their age and size. But the Wagon was quite the hit at a couple of off-campus keg parties, plus no one could fit more bodies in their vehicle than I could, so if space was what we needed, she was our girl.

If nothing else, the Grand Marquis taught me to truly appreciate every vehicle I have had since then, and I do recognize how fortunate I was to have a car to drive in the first place. Despite not realizing at the time, I am very thankful for that first car. She got me around and I spent a great deal of time with her during such important years. And while his might not produce the same charming, comical stories in the future, I do hope my son can learn to appreciate the value a well-loved, well-traveled first car can add to his life.