“Wiggle, wiggle, Daddy.” My sister, brother, and I would call this out while sitting on the bench seat of our Rambler classic 550 station wagon. (The wagon had wing vents for ventilation and an A.M. radio with one speaker up front, but no power brakes or steering.) If we were on a country road, Dad would spin the wheel left, then right, then left again, so we snaked down the road. It was thrilling.

Do some of your life memories involve vehicles? Can you recall a favorite family car or the first car you owned?

Mine was a turquoise Plymouth Valiant, which my dad bought for $100. It had cool push buttons for neutral, reverse, and drives 1, 2, and 3. I drove it through the neighborhood with the windows down, letting the breeze sweep my long blonde hair back from my face. As an eighteen-year-old, the world was full of wonderful possibilities.

Reality soon set in. Major repairs necessitated replacing the turquoise valiant with a rusty four-door sedan. I was driving alone, meeting friends at a Cat Stevens concert in Racine when a guy in a shiny sports car pulled out of an intersection and sideswiped me.

Shaken, I pulled over. A woman, hearing the crash, hurried out of her house. She looked at the man’s shiny car and my rusty older model. She yelled to the sports car driver that she’d seen the whole thing. “It was “her” fault.” I’m not sure if she hoped for a payoff, but her tone and words shook me even more. When the fast-talking middle-aged man convinced me that my car had minor damage and we shouldn’t call the police, I stupidly agreed. Later, I learned how much it would cost to fix “the minor damage.” Thankfully, my father visited a junkyard and, since he worked at American Motors, had the skills to replace the smashed door. I spent the next few years driving to Parkside College in a gold car with one red door, a reminder of my naiveté.

The mismatched car proved to be lucky for me since it became a topic of discussion with the man who would end up being my husband. Frank eventually repainted it and earned several favorable points.

Once Frank and I had children, we bought a station wagon. This was before seat belts were a thing, and on long trips, we’d put the little ones in a playpen set up in the back. (I know, I’m shuddering too.)

Frank’s ’48 Ford working truck also didn’t have seatbelts (it does now), but we’d pile in it to pick up the Christmas tree, head for the bike trail, or go camping at Devil’s Lake. Throwing a mattress in the bed turned it into a camper.

Our daughters were in high school and our son in college when Frank bought an antique robin’s egg blue ’62 Corvair. We celebrated our empty nester anniversary by traveling to Iowa’s Amana Colonies. We sped down the road with the top down, my hair shorter but still long enough to blow in the breeze.  

I was a mature woman before I ever picked out a car on my own. It was a used navy blue Chrysler PT Cruiser. It was so ugly, it was cute, and it had a sunroof. I would take breaks from work and sit in it on sunny spring days. It was glorious, like being in a greenhouse, and revived my spirit.

In 2011, I got to pick out my second car, a Ford Fusion, also with a sunroof. I chose a cherry red color so I could find it in parking lots. (This is a big deal for me.) On warm days, I like to lower the windows and open the sunroof so my hair, now highlighted blonde, can sweep back from my face. If I’m feeling especially springy, I’ve also been known to turn the wheel to the left, right, and left again. 

“Wiggle, wiggle, Amy.”

(Thanks to my brother Jeff, who provided car details.)