Under the Hood

Summer is almost over — it’s time for my car’s quarterly cleanup.

I am conscientious about its mechanical maintenance, but I am lax when it comes to keeping it spotless inside and out. With every car I have owned I have thought, would I take better care of my dream car? Would my vintage Bentley convertible be primped and primed like a beauty queen?

I should really be more attentive to Black Beauty, my 2008 Volvo, which I bought for a pittance six years ago. For an old girl, she is a surprisingly attractive and looks much younger than she is.

Jackie Kennedy named her black Mercury convertible with red interior Zelda after Zelda Fitzgerald, because “she was an unreliable beauty.” My Volvo is classy and dependable, like Black Beauty.

My first car was a Volkswagen Bug. Actually, it wasn’t mine — it was my father’s station car. It sat idle all day while he was in the city.

In my senior year at St. Mary’s High School in Manhasset, I had a permit, but I couldn’t drive without a licensed driver. I wouldn’t turn 17 until May.

In September, standing at the bus stop, I noticed Pam Maguire hugging her books to her chest. We knew each other but traveled in different circles. I sidled up to her and said, “Pam, you have a license and I have a car. I think we should be friends.”

As long as I had the Bug parked fairly close to the original space before my father came home from work, we had wheels. That Bug became the catalyst for a lifelong friendship.

When I was in college, I met my first husband, who owned a TR4 and a Shelby Mustang GT350. The Mustang was so powerful that I didn’t smoke while I drove. I needed two hands on the wheel to control that animal.

Shortly after we were married, the cars were replaced by two Volkswagens. We named the blue Bug John, and we called the yellow one Betsy. I don’t know why.

When I was in labor with my son, I squeezed behind Betsy’s wheel and drove myself to Southampton Hospital, realizing with each contraction that I had no time to sightsee. He was born an hour later.

It was also the car I drove to North Shore Hospital twice a week for my son’s speech therapy. At that time, the speed limit was 70 mph and seat belts were not required. I remember swatting my hand behind my back to reach my naughty children, who, laughing with glee, huddled in the corner of the rear seat.

After my husband demolished John, he bought a Volkswagen Rabbit. When I went back to work, he purchased a Chevy Blazer, and I inherited the Rabbit. His Blazer seized up on Sunrise Highway because he never changed the oil. I got a new auto — a Saab.

As a working mother, I practically lived in that Saab. And it looked like it. Once, when I took a marine studies course that involved field trips, I teamed up with two other women to carpool. They both had immaculate white cars.

The night before I was supposed to drive, it rained. I removed reams of paper, coffee cups, deli wrappers, shoes and stray makeup. We didn’t have a garage, so I didn’t vacuum.

The next morning, the woman in the back seat asked to move the front passenger seat forward to give her more leg room. I did. A sesame bagel with 2 inches of moldy cream cheese rolled to her feet.

We’re still friends.

My favorite car was my silver gray Volkswagen Cabriolet. With that top down, I experienced a sense of freedom that spilled over into my first marriage.

After the divorce, the Cabriolet started to have issues. I couldn’t afford to maintain her. Luckily, Big Red, an ancient Dodge station wagon, entered my life. Before a family friend died, she told my mother that I should have her car. Mom did harp about my safety as a single woman driving alone in an unreliable car.

Free was good, but that clunk of a car was a lesson in humility. However, it did carry me safely to the University of North Carolina at Wilmington for a fellowship I had won. Plus, it held most of my possessions, since my house had been rented for the summer. My roommates were impressed that I traveled with a 3-liter jug of olive oil.

Big Red wasn’t exactly a male magnet, but it was the car I was driving when I met my husband, Terry. At the end of the night, he slipped into a teal blue Z28 Camaro convertible, top down in November. I fell in love with the car and then, soon after, with the man.

Years later, we cried when we gave up the Camaro. Terry now has a beat-up 2000 Chevy Silverado truck and a 2013 silver gray BMW convertible. I am hoping the Volvo, Black Beauty, will stay in shape and make it to 200,000 miles.

Regardless of the makes and models, or engine sizes of my cars, they have provided a refuge, a cryatorium, a think tank, and a decompression chamber. It’s also a private space for conversations, to imitate foreign accents on NPR, and to sing at the top of my lungs.