“The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In 1952, This is Your Life debuted on NBC. It was a unique show that ran until 1961 and was incredibly popular. The program focused on recalling different moments in the lives of both celebrities and ordinary, everyday people. The show’s host, Ralph Edwards, would look back on the events that took place in each individual’s life with the help of friends and family, resulting in heartwarming television for the whole family—a far cry from what we watch today.
We compartmentalize and classify the past in a variety of ways. Sometimes we categorize based on people, places, or things. Obviously, inanimate objects don’t have the capacity to speak like humans, but what if they did? What would they say? Thinking along these lines, wouldn’t it be amazing if past automobiles could talk and take us on a retrospective trip detailing the moments we were passengers in them.
Besides our own homes, we spend a good amount time in cars. They represent different chapters in our lives. They come fully loaded with memories of not just the vehicle itself, but the trips, vacations, and notable events they helped us safely get to. I’m pretty sure my version of Tommy, This Was A Car in Your Life would include the following unforgettable rides:
The Booger. 1979 gave us a new family member and a sweet Pontiac Safari station wagon we affectionately called the Booger. I am still amazed that eight, and then nine, of us were all able to fit into that green beauty. Like all spectacular station wagons of the era, the Booger came with the standard backwards-facing seat in the “way back.” Nothing was better than putting the back window down, and hanging your feet out while the car was in motion. Of course, these seats were detested by truckers everywhere as they encouraged younger passengers to annoyingly signal for them to blow their horns every time they drove past. Even better was when the seat was folded down and we were free to “roam about the cabin” or spread out while the car was enroute. Safety? Not a chance.
The Astro. Like many of the large families who made the natural progression from station wagon to minivan, we were amazed at the one-sided sliding door component of those early models. The Astro was the antithesis of aerodynamic design, but it did have a tape deck and automatic windows in the front. Unfortunately it also had those subpar window propping latches that did nothing to cool down those of us relegated to the back. Ours was gray and had a distinct look to it courtesy of one of my sister Ellen’s early attempts at backing it out of the driveway.
The Tank. The Lunchbox. The Hopper. Getting to and from places during my high school years in these gems was always a treat. The Tank was a rust brown-colored Chevy Caprice station wagon driven by my oldest friend, Tim. Construction barrels all throughout the city of Lakewood, Ohio, particularly those between West Clifton and Lake Road, were never safe when the Tank was cruising the streets.
The Lunchbox was a gorgeous Chevy Cavalier Station Wagon driven by my buddy, Ryan. It was a sports utility vehicle before the SUV became all the rage—except it wasn’t. The shape of the car hilariously made you think of those 1970s and 1980s lunch boxes equipped with a thermos. My Dukes of Hazzard lunch box was never far from my mind whenever my buddy RK was behind the wheel.
Finally there was the Hopper. A grasshopper green, 1981 Chevy Malibu Classic my pal Jimmy drove to school. She was an absolute beauty. The interior foam ceiling was drooping in spots, but we didn’t mind. She was a workhorse that never started again after parking on Carroll Avenue late in the spring of 1995. Ironically, the Hopper was wheeled to a parking lot behind a bank and left there, rather appropriate I’d say as she was priceless.
The Guillotine and Pool Ball. The first two cars I ever owned, each had some memorable characteristics. The Guillotine was a 1989 Ford Escort with automatic seat belts that seemed to decapitate the driver and passenger once the car was started, hence its name. The engine would often overheat in the summer, requiring me to turn the heat on high in order to prevent it from stalling out—maybe I should have called her the Sauna. Thankfully, I mean sadly, she died in a brutal New Jersey heatwave during the summer of 1999.
Her successor was a 1993 pool ball maroon-colored Buick Regal that had a busted air conditioner—which was an upgrade from having to turn the heat on during the summer. I was undoubtedly the youngest person in America—probably by about 40 years—to drive that model of car at the time.
The Windstar. With kids came my own minivan. I opted for a baby blue, 2001 Ford model of what my older brother mockingly referred to as my “Catholic Sports Car.” I never understood the stigma so many males put on having a minivan. Friends would often incredulously ask what possessed me to buy one. My standard response was usually, “Look at me. Do you think I care about how something looks?” Ironically, my big brother soon joined the Catholic Sports Car ranks when his twin boys were born.
Today I drive a blue Nissan Murano. It gets me from point A to point B and—knock on wood—has been pretty reliable. I doubt I will have the same memories attached to it as the previous cars listed. As we get older, naming the cars in our lives ceases—and that’s unfortunate. Without a name, there is no connection.
All of us can recall various cars in our lives by their names. Whether it was Betty, White Lightning, Lucille, the Peach Pit, the Helmet, the Boat, the Blue Bomb, the Gray Whale, the Blueberry, the Ocean, Vlad the Impala, the Pigeon, the Beagler, Thaddeus CARsciuszko, Clydefurd the III, the Rabbito, the Burb, or a brown Buick Skyhawk known as the Turd, memories of these four-wheeled friends take us back to simpler times and long forgotten places.
As Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, “The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles.” Nothing could be closer to the truth. I plan on driving my current car as long as possible, so I should probably bequeath her with a name. Starting today, she will henceforth be known as Marie. In the immortal words of Neil Young: Long may you run, Marie. Long may you run.
-Tommy O’Sionnach
One of my favorites yet! Except you forgot the Jeep Cherokee! That one has some stories! My first car what named Stella because she was completely covered in snow in winter storm Stella when I first got her. Now I have Nina the Nissan. Kizzey’s car Busted Betty will also have a special place in my heart. Great one dad!
Oh, Tommy, this is so funny!!! I'll put it right up there as one of my favorites.