MOTOR MEMOIRS:

Silver anniversary corvette, silver on the outside, black on the inside. T-tops off, sitting in the passenger seat and looking in the side mirror at Linda’s white corvette following us, her driver’s window down, and wavy blonde hair blowing everywhere, supermodel style, and tanned arm exhibiting itself occasionally as she smoked a cigarette. Her matching, appropriate, 80’s style white monstrous sunglasses sitting on her cute little nose, and me wishing that when I grew up, I would be pretty and cute and tiny and cool like that. Linda was sweet as can be. She had it all – looks, personality, outgoing nature, cool car and matching sunglasses – oh and did I say looks?

Then I remember looking back at myself in the mirror, my long, out of control red hair pulled back in a ponytail, and the short hairs that framed my chubby face all messy and frizzy, blowing around, observing my thin dry lips, wishing my dad thought I was old enough to put some lipstick on like my mom would let me do occasionally, seeing my freckled, sunburned nose, and realizing that when I grew up, I was going to be like me, not her, or anybody else I wanted to be that wasn’t like me. Like it or not. Nothing to be done about it either. Accept it, D. Then looking over at my father driving us home to his townhouse in Houston after Mexican food at Ninfa’s, and hoping he wasn’t wishing I’d turn out like her either, that he’d always accept me for being me. Pretty heavy thoughts for a 7 year old.

White convertible mustang, blue interior, white canvas automatic top. Top down. Fall time of year. Out for a drive just to get away. Cold outside, but the top being down didn’t matter ‘cuz I had the heat blaring. Slow roast style. 17 years old. Just got my hair cut, and using my sunglasses as a headband to showcase the new ‘do. Cruising down Northgate Drive, listening to Steve Miller Band belt out Joker, smelling the Ellen Tracy perfume I used to wear back in the day, thinking about Seth and wishing things were different, and keeping an eye out for the same cop that gave me a ticket on that road just a year before. Independent, young, surrounded by things that were “me” in every aspect, yet I was sad. I missed my friend, my confidant, the first person I had ever felt really connected to. And I realized that any other person that would come into my life, that I would appreciate, and care for, I’d manage to screw it up somehow by being me. Every time I drive down Northgate, which is often, I always have a flashback of this memory.

Dark red Jeep Wrangler, tan top. I loved that car. Me in the passenger’s seat (which was a different experience since I hardly let anyone drive that vehicle), hot outside, yet the top was up. Bawling. No radio on. Being driven home after leaving the hospital, and also leaving behind what would have been my now 9 year old child. Hurting on the inside more than the outside, drained from the fright, the pain, not able to get the thought of all that blood out of my head, and feeling the inexperienced driver shifting gears not smoothly, but just jerking me more, and knowing my life would never be the same. Wanting Arnie out of my life, wishing something like this would’ve happened with someone I loved so that I could accept the compassion that I needed. Instead I didn’t want to hear the I’m sorry’s, nor let him touch me or to give me a hug, I just wanted him to drive me home, get in his car, drive away and never come back. I’m thankful he did.


Postscript:
It’s amazing to me how in this generation, this period of time, vehicles tie in with so many of our recollections. Memories of sights, sounds, surroundings, smells, and situations, all tied in with what car we were in. Pinpointing exact thoughts and ideas, or realizations, and being able to remember all of it when we think of that car, or even see a like model on the road to whatever destination it’s going to, creating memories for its passengers on its way. These are just a few of mine… They fill my thoughts recurrently, if not constantly.