June 1948 age: going on 1

My first ride, of course, was my trike. It was a Murray, which apparently I got for Christmas when I was four months old. Months. What on earth were my parents thinking? At that age people can't even eat food. I'm 10 months old in this pic, and not sure but I don't think my feet reached the pedals. On reflection, it was one of the most wildly imaginative, absurd, awesome things my parents ever did as my parents. Otherwise, with one other gigantic, mind-numbing, inexplicable exception, – another story for another day – they were consistently and stiflingly sensible about every aspect of my upbringing, so much so that I question whether it was actually they who got me the trike or whether it was a gift, possibly from my well-off uncle.

And not until now, as I write about it, does it occur to me how incredibly early in life I was introduced to being mobile and the freedom and independence that can provide. Whether it was they or Uncle Junius who introduced me to it, it's a concept that stuck with me always, and grew as I grew, that became part of me and of my life, and that has always played a significant role in defining who I am.

June 1950 age: 3

Our house was in a low-rent working class neighborhood on Filhiol ('FEE-ol') Avenue, a dead-end street a block away from the bayou with very little traffic and no sidewalks. Most of the neighborhood kids played and rode in the street, but I was strictly forbidden to leave the driveway, so it was a small world I rode in.. not a lot of room for exciting triking. I don't have many memories from those early years, but one of the most vivid is of the me in this pic making endless circles in that tiny driveway as fast as my chubby little legs could push the pedals.

August 1952 age: 4-5

In the summer of 1952 my father had a motor scooter for a while, which I think must have looked a lot like the Cushman shown here. One of my earliest memories is of him taking me for a ride on that scooter. I stood between his legs and held on to the handlebar while he drove us to the end of the street and back. I was in love! I admit my memory of this event is decades old, but it's a memory I've hung onto throughout all of the intervening years, and to whatever degree a tiny child can think "I want to do this".. well, I'm sure I must have been thinking that and more. In my babyish way I was feeling that "I CAN do this.. this is easy." He only had the scooter for a little while, and as far as I know I only got the one ride on it, but that was all it took. From then on I never stopped wanting to drive, and as soon as I could I did.

June 1960 age: 12

At age 12 while visiting my grandmother in Alabama I finally got my first chance to drive. A boy I met there was old enough to have a driver's license and a big old land yacht, and I needled him into teaching me to drive it. Of course I took to it like duck to pond, and in less than an hour I was cruising right through the middle of town just as bold and confident as you please. In those days, in those parts, nobody batted an eye if a 12-year-old girl who could barely see over the steering wheel went sailing through town on a sunny summer afternoon.

July 1963 age: 15

By this time I was a military brat and living in West Berlin. I couldn't drive there, but the Germans are big on festivals and any decent festival had rides, most importantly, bumper cars, which I loved and could never get enough of. One year at the German-American Volksfest I traded an entire afternoon in the bumper cars for a pilfered pack of my father's Marlboros -- Ja ja, Amerikanische Zigaretten sind sehr gut! -- and honed my ramming, er, steering skills.

May 1965 age: 17

My next real driving experience was in Michigan at age seventeen. I was at a bar with friends, and they were all drunk but I was underage and sober, so I had to drive us home, 30 miles away, in an old rust-bucket I'd never even ridden in before. I hadn't driven a car since the Alabama land yacht five years earlier, and the yacht was an automatic and this old boonie stomper was a stick, but I was like, What the hey, I can do this, let's go! By that time, I had been dreaming about it for most of my life. Literally. For years I'd had recurring dreams in which I'd be driving a car with a manual transmission, so when I finally did drive one for real it was almost familiar. And absolutely thrilling, and I easily got us home. Again, I adored driving, especially the stick shift. Ah, bench seats, three on the column.. I'd love to drive one of those again just for the lark of it.

July 1966 age: 18

Then came really learning how to drive. It was a couple years later. I was living with my mother in Mississippi and hadn't been behind the wheel of a car since that night in Michigan. Pop was away on an extended business trip, Mom didn't know how to drive, and we needed to be mobile. I seized my golden opportunity like it was the brass ring.

Pop had left his car - a white 1964 VW Beetle - in the driveway. I just got in the driver's side, Ma got in the passenger side, I fished the owner's manual out of the glove box and studied the gear shift sequences for a few minutes, backed out, and away we went. Voila! Home Driving School! The rules of the road? I already knew them well from years of riding around with Pop.

What I hadn't counted on, what I hadn't dreamed about, what was completely unfamiliar and unexpected was the first time I had to take off from a dead stop heading uphill. It was a 4-way stop, and the "hill" was only a very slight incline, but I wasn't familiar enough with the feel of the clutch to go forward without slipping back a bit first. Every time I tried it, I slipped back more and slammed on the brakes. Tried again, slipped more, braked. Meanwhile, a line of cars was building up behind me. What happened next is one of those stories that gets told repeatedly over the years at family gatherings and such. My mom got out and went to the cars behind us one by one and explained the situation to the drivers, who all thought it was a hoot, thankfully. So they all backed up, giving me the space I needed, and I moved ahead without further incident. Ah, yesssssss.. my first challenging hill and the exhilaration of conquering it!

Spring 1969 age: 21

The first car I ever actually owned was a black 1959 VW Beetle, which I bought from a friend for $100. It was pretty primitive. The heater didn't work at all, the brakes weren't much better and it didn't even HAVE a gas gauge; I had to carry spare gas all the time in case I ran out. And the engine would die for no apparent reason when idling at stop lights, so I had to master the old "throw it in neutral, brake with your left foot and keep your right foot on the gas" trick to keep it from dying. But I sure loved that car; it was MINE. And it kept me mobile. I don't think I ever loved another vehicle that much again until my Pearl, the FJ.

For two years I drove Blackie all over Memphis and to a few more distant places like Knoxville, St Louis, and even Chicago. Then one warm autumn day I was halfway to Nashville on I-40, and it just up and died. Died and would not go another inch. A trucker who was behind me and saw the whole thing happen ("Lady, it done threw a rod.") stopped and gave me a ride into the city, and I never saw that sweet car again. The State of Tennessee eventually hauled it away and sent me a bill.

The one huge regret I've always had about having to abandon that car was that I also had to abandon what was in it, which included five or six original posters by Detroit psychedelic artist Gary Grimshaw. They had been given to me in the winter of '67 by some friends who stayed with us in Memphis for a few days on their way west, fleeing a police rout of the Motor City's hippie-infested Plum Street district and .. ah but that's yet another story for another day.

Spring 1971 age: 24

The first brand new car I ever owned was a shiny yellow 1971 Ford Pinto. It was wonderful.. roomy, reliable, warm in winter, had a gas gauge and ooh-la-la, "bucket seats and four on the floor."

I used it to leave the South forever.

Summer 1974 age: 27

The Pinto was followed over the decades by a succession of more or less useful vehicles, as I worked, played, raised a child, fell in love, got married, and in general had a life..

1967 Chevy Bel Air Wagon - once listed by High Times magazine as one of the best cars to use when transporting illegal substances.

Summer 1977 age: 30

1972 Chevy El Camino. Not mine; it was Jimmy's but I drove it a lot of the time. Great vehicle.. I still miss it.

Winter 1983 age: 36

1980 VW Dasher. A yawner, but it got me around.

1995 age: 38

1989 Honda Prelude. Ry loved this one.. it was his midlife crisis car. At some point he bought his sporty little BMW and I gave up the Dasher and started driving the Prelude. It was a sweet ride.

2000 age: 53

2000 Honda CR-V. I loved this one.. we could go places in it. We did Titus in it in May '04, our first time doing an 'off-road' trail. And we took it up to the Barker Ranch and back with the PSR group in January '06, the trip that made us realize we were ready for 4x4.

2006 age: 59

2002 Toyota 4Runner. Now we were cookin with gas.. there was nowhere we wanted to go that we couldn't get to. The 4Runner was Ry's daily car and I drove the CR-V. The Prelude was in the garage back in Ohio - donated to charity in 2008.

2011 age: 64

Nissan Frontier, year unknown. The vehicle that made me hate Nissan.. bought used, and I gave up the CR-V for it.

We still had the 4Runner, but with two 4x4s we could go out together so that if one of the vehicles had a problem, we could still drive out. At least the Nissan was reliable.

2014 age: 67

The Pearl, my 2014 Toyota FJ Cruiser. Better late than never, I finally got the vehicle I had waited for, trained for, and pined for all my life without knowing it.

2018 age: 71

2018 Toyota Rav 4. The only automatic I've ever owned and the first one I've driven since the El Camino. It took some getting used to. Also, getting old sucks.