Cars, Used

 The first car I owned, or to be more precise took ownership of, was the red Toyota pickup my older brother bequeathed me on the advent of his moving on to a more mature vehicle suited for the things that a college man would be travelling to. I drove that truck with love and care for about two weeks before I ran it off the road and into a tree. Totaled it. Trade in value: Zero. 

Then I worked for a summer mowing lawns and other odd jobs until I was able to raise the eight hundred eighty dollars I needed to by a copper colored Chevy Vega. This was the car of my high school years, filled with all the stereo and oogah horns my attention could lavish upon it. There was little I could do to slow the eventual warping of the aluminum engine block except turn up the stereo and keep pouring oil into it. Eventually, when it could hardly make it down the block, I drove it to another lot and traded it in. 

The Chevy Vega turned into a metallic blue Volkswagen Super Beetle. Much of the stereo equipment was lovingly transferred to this beast, as well as the oogah horn. I drove this bad boy into college and made a voyage to Muskogee, Oklahoma where I learned the hard news about forgetting to add oil to an air-cooled engine. Somewhere outside Tulsa, it threw a rod. The Blue Shark, as I named it under the influence of Hunter S Thompson, had to be towed back to Colorado where attempts to revive it were never able fully restore it to glory. I drove what was left of it down to the lot and traded the smoking hulk in for a green Honda Accord hatchback.

This was the car that I drove out of college and into my semi-adult life. I drove it to my job at the video store. I drove it to my job installing office furniture. I drove it out of my misspent youth and into sobriety. Eventually, this was the car that drove me to California where I took up residence with the woman who would become my wife. 

For a short period, we managed a two-car household. When it became apparent that we would be parents, we traded the Honda in on a white Mercury Tracer. The Tracer was a grownup enough car that we didn't raise eyebrows when we showed up for playdates. My wife's beloved Toyota art car was handed down to my younger brother, who brought it more paint and love until it quietly expired. The Tracer was traded in on the next step up to a family car: The gold Saturn Wagon. 

Now we were rolling in family style. Mom and dad and two of our son's friend could be carted to this or that attraction, and it was the means by which we traveled the western United States. The Saturn lasted long enough that we could threaten our son with bequeathing it to him when he turned sixteen. 

Sadly, there would be no bequeathing. Or trade in. This time the transaction was grand theft auto, or at least pretty good theft auto. The limited insurance settlement didn't allow us much in terms of an upgrade, but with the support of friends and a happy coincidence or two, we were able to purchase a white Toyota Prius. The Carship Enterprius has been the wheels under our travels up and down the west coast, and has even survived a radical catalytic converter-ectomy. Our son has grown and left our nest, starting his own colony of motor vehicles. His approach to buying and selling rarely relies on the trade in, allowing him to own and drive multiple cars at any one time. The web of his car ownership is not the single thread of his father.

I'm not judging here. I'm just old and confused. I figured you had to wear a car out before getting a new one.