I’ve always racked up mileage on a car.
I blamed the miles on taking the boys to and from school every day, going to sports practices and games and the long distance between home and the grocery store.
The truth is, I’ve always loved driving.
For my 15th birthday, the only thing I wanted was my driver’s license. Back in the day in Louisiana, the legal age to get a driver’s license was 15, and I was the first one in line on my birthday.
I was ready on all counts. My dad said if I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift, I didn’t know how to drive, so he spent a few afternoons teaching me the art of using a clutch and the column shift.
I remember learning how to maneuver the shift “H” on the column. That Ford moved like the wind, which made sense as the police in town drove the same model and style car.
The Ford had a habit of stalling, and I got pretty good at talking friends into pushing the car while I popped the clutch.
The first car where the keys stayed in my purse was my dad’s old Pontiac Executive.
There were lots of reasons why my dad gave me that car. Mainly, he got a better one and gave me the junker.
I had to pump the brakes to get the car to stop, and the butterfly valve on the engine stuck.
Starting the car on cold mornings required two people. One person had to pop the hood and jiggle the valve while the other person started the car. But then we were off for adventures.
My favorite part of driving the car at night was the dimmer switch for the lights. It was on the floor, near my left foot, and I’ve never understood why car engineers deleted that option.
When my brother started driving, my dad traded the Pontiac for an old 1958 Chevy. Driving that car was like driving a tank, and my mom liked that just fine.
One morning, the car’s thermostat came on while I was on my way to school.
I pulled over at a gas station – back then there were mechanics at the gas station – and I asked him to take a look.
He came around to my window and told me not to get out of the car. Apparently a cat had crawled up into the engine compartment to stay warm, and he didn’t get out in time when the fan came on.
The attendant said I didn’t want to see what was under the hood. I was relieved a few years later when Detroit started putting a housing on engine fans.
The first car I ever bought on my own was a white hatch-back Honda Civic. The price was non-negotiable which was fine as the sticker total was a few thousand dollars below anything else on the market.
That car was reliable, fast and easy on gas and maintenance. I kept that car for years until our second child was coming along. No way could we fit a car seat, a 5-year-old and two adults in that little car.
I cried when we sold it, even though I knew we had to, and happily drove mini vans until our youngest son went to college.
I moved to sedans for a while, but with four grandchildren in the Houston area, I’ve been driving a Highlander with a third seat.
Some days, I wish I still had that old Ford, just so I could see if I could still pop the clutch.
Until then, I’ll have to be content with all the bells and whistles on modern cars.
I think I can handle it.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald