Editor’s note: This column, aside from the first paragraph, originally ran in the April 6, 2011, issue of Up & Coming Weekly.  

Nostalgia struck hard in August when I cleaned my yoga mats, recyclable shopping bags, various post office receipts and lost CDs out of Station Wagon No. 7 and kissed my trusty friend goodbye after more than 153,000 miles and many happy times together.  In her place is shiny new SW No. 8, and we are just beginning to get acquainted. Who knew cars now come with iPads in their dashboards? All of which made me remember the following homage I wrote to all the cars I’ve loved before when SW No. 7 arrived in 2011. I hope it brings back memories for you as well.

Like any parent, I am excited by the arrival of my latest baby – Station Wagon No. 7!  

I suspected she – all my wagons have been shes, except the last one, which was definitely a he – was coming when SW No. 6 was well into six-figure mileage and needed a set of large and expensive new tires. Instead of committing for another 50,000 miles or so, I left him forlornly on a car dealer’s lot and drove away in my new baby, sad about leaving behind what felt like a dear old friend but anxious to get to know my new one.  

I know now that I will meet my maker as a station wagon owner for two simple reasons. I love being able to pop open the back door and toss in my belongings, and today’s popular SUVs are a bear to crawl in and out of if one is wearing a skirt. 

The only real question is what number it will be.

I have not always been a station wagon girl, though.

I got my first car at 16, not so much because my parents were wildly generous as because my mother worked in the family business and needed me to drive my sister around. It was a used, lemon-yellow Corvair, the car Ralph Nader called “unsafe at any speed,” because it had the motor in the trunk and nothing in front but space. 

I loved it! But I could not drive the darn thing. It had what was called “four on the floor” with a clutch so sensitive everyone who ever drove it leapt for several blocks. My long-suffering father tried to teach me to drive it, but he finally gave up in exasperation on a quiet Haymount street with these words: “Margaret, I love you, but I cannot stand it anymore. I am going to walk home and call your best friend to come get you.” 

He did and she did. 

She eventually taught me how to drive my Corvair during one long Sunday afternoon in a deserted parking lot.

The next car, which lasted through college, was a giant lemon-yellow (again!) convertible, mercifully equipped with an automatic transmission. I loved this one, too, because I could cram in five or more friends, but it also had an issue. Sometimes it would not turn off, even when you took the keys out. The world must have been a safer place in those days because I often just got out and left it running. No one ever took it, but it did once run out of gas. 

Post-college, I had a blue Cougar with a white vinyl roof. By this time, cars were less exciting and more functional, and this one was fine, although I did not love it. I particularly did not love it when it was stolen on a New York City street. New York’s finest assured me that it was “parts” within minutes of its departure, but they were wrong. It turned out to be one of the few stolen vehicles recovered that year and dirtier than any car I had ever seen. We picked it up from a Brooklyn impoundment lot, and within 24 hours, the motor went up in flames. 

Needless, to say, I traded it as soon as I could. In succession came an Audi Fox (my first new car!), a Honda Civic and a diesel Rabbit. By that time, I was a mother, so enter SW No. 1, a diesel Oldsmobile, not representative of General Motors’ finest work. It was so loud, a friend once asked what was wrong with it. 

Then came SW No. 2, an Army Corps of Engineers blue Chevrolet, huge but with no pickup. That car self-combusted in front of VanStory Hills Elementary School, a surefire way to make a spectacle of oneself.

SW No. 3 was a white Oldsmobile bought at an auction, followed by my all-time favorite, a Buick Roadmaster that had fake wood paneling and was big enough to move Ringling Brothers. By that time, the Precious Jewels were acquainted with the concept of “cool,” which SW No. 4 definitely was not. I tried to convince them that it was really a Corvette since it had the same engine, but they were not buying that.  Apparently, everyone else thought they were uncool, too, since those wonderful cars are no longer made.  

SW No. 5 and I had adventures too numerous to recount here, including a theft despite a legislative license plate, a concrete angel with a red bow around its neck shoved through the passenger window, and a final fiery meltdown and demise in rural Canada.

The recently departed SW No. 6, my only boy, is memorable because I did not fit his demographic.  Observers expected the driver to be Mr. T – complete with gold chains – and were universally startled when the driver turned out to be a middle-aged woman in faux pearl earrings. 

So, welcome, SW No. 7.  

We are still getting to know each other, but I look forward to many happy miles together.