The first car I ever had was a hand-me-down from my mom’s boyfriend. It was a 1980 Dodge Challenger in grey. It was repainted black for me. I learned to drive stick on it and ruined the clutch once because I was doing circles in first gear while my boyfriend at the time was on the roof. I did this instead of going to the ballet.
My second car was a hand-me-down from my mom. It was a white 1987 Mazda 626. It was also a stick but had no power steering. I drove it from California to Eastern Canada. I didn’t take care of it and had to cover the engine with a blanket while it was parked so that it would start during the winter.
My third car was a black 1997 Saturn coupe. It was given to me by my stepdad. It was an automatic and was traded-in at the spur of the moment as my ex and I were coming back from an art fair in Florida. Oh, almost forgot to mention—it was traded-in by my ex for a truck that he wanted. It happened so fast, I didn’t realize what occurred.
To replace my car, my ex gave me his, so my fourth car was a black 2001 Jetta. It was a stick. When I moved from Florida to California, I drove it across country with my friend Ang in the passenger seat navigating and my greyhound dog, Cyrano, in the backseat. When Cyrano passed, my friend Karen and I loaded him into the car and I drove him to the vet’s office to be cremated. That was the saddest day of my life.
My fifth car is the one I have now which I got last year. It’s a black (of course) 2011 Mazda 6. It was the first car I ever bought. I spent eight hours at the dealership trying to find the right one. So far, nothing memorable to report.