My father gave me my first car, a 1965 Ford Fairlane. Although I had my driver’s license, I didn’t know out how to back up, park, or merge. To be honest, I couldn’t even start the car. I’d always flood the engine.
How did I get a license? The day of the exam, I aced the written section, but failed the road part. I couldn’t parallel park; nor could I negotiate a K-turn. For some reason, the examiner said, “Oh hell,” and passed me anyway.
That first winter, the floor beneath the Fairlane passenger seat had rusted out so badly, you could see the road under your feet. One day, the front of the steering wheel fell into my lap. The final straw was when the top of the gas pedal snapped off while I was driving.
Next, I inherited a Pontiac Tempest, which spent most of its time broken down. A plumber offered to take the car in trade for a wringer washing machine--a very bad deal. You have to feed your clothing through an actual wringer, a task that requires attentiveness, manual dexterity, and durable garments. I routinely wound up with mashed fingers and mangled clothes.
Moreover, I didn’t know that the washer needed a ground wire. On a particularly shocking morning, I placed one hand on the washer and my other on the utility sink, thereby completing an electrical circuit. I experienced a remarkable jolt and that’s why I have curly hair to this day.
I don’t know what possessed me to buy my next car, a Dodge Colt Hatchback, bright yellow with a black racing stripe. This car had a stick shift. I could barely drive an automatic car. What made me think I could manage a manual?
I couldn’t. My kind roommate volunteered to teach me, a decision she deeply regretted. One memory stands out. She screamed, “The clutch. Hit the clutch! Get into FIRST!” as we slowly slipped backwards down a hill, heading straight for the Quinebaug River.
Several years later, I’d moved to Hanover, New Hampshire where the punishing winter weather had corroded the Dodge Colt. The Motor Vehicle people insisted that I repair the spots. Being cash-free, I decided to do the bodywork myself. These were pre-Google days, when a person just had to guess how to do things.
I borrowed a rotary sander, bought Bondo then chose yellow spray paint. Turned out, my zealous sanding created huge craters that the Bondo couldn’t fill. The “yellow” paint I bought appeared puke green when applied, causing the car to resemble a giant bumble bee in camo.
Two minutes after we married, Bruce listed the Dodge Colt in the local want ads. A few days later, a man arrived with the requisite cash. He hadn’t driven 50 feet before the muffler fell off. For the next year, we saw the car all over town, stuffed with the man’s possessions. We believe he was living in it, but we didn’t ask. We were just relieved it was still working.
Now I own a Honda Pilot, perhaps my last car. I assumed we’d buy a smaller vehicle after the kids left. However, often, all eight seats of the Pilot are filled with four generations of Prums. Usually, one of my children takes the wheel, which is just fine by me since they all are reasonably good at parking, backing up and most importantly, starting the car.
More of Deborah Prum’s work can be found at: www.deborahprum.com