| How
I Became Intimately Involved with My Car
Before I moved to California, I was an ordinary urban cliff
dweller: I had only a nodding acquaintance with cars. Ours
was locked up in a garage, to be sum. moned forth by my husband
for excursions to "the country"; otherwise, I used
subways, buses, and taxis. All the maintenance on our car
was done by the garage that housed it. My sole contribution
to our automotive life was choosing the color whenever we
bought a new vehicle, and my main purpose in getting a driver's
license was so that I could go to the supermarket during our
summers in the country or drive down to the lake for a swim.
I rarely, if ever, drove in the city because doing so seemed
a cross between foolishness and suicide.
When we moved to California, I must confess that my enthusiasm
for a life in the sun was considerably dampened by the knowledge
that this would also include a life on the freeway, but then
I began to sow my oats. It started with a solo marketing excursion,
and then that marvelous feeling of freedom that comes with
sliding behind the wheel began to take hold. Before I knew
it, I was looking for a car of my own.
Because the family
budget had been considerably strained by the move West, the
best I could do was a six-year-old Mustang with more than
70,000 miles on it. A friend of mine who had grown up in Los
Angeles - and was therefore a qualified automotive expert
- checked out the car and pronounced it dri¬vable. He
said that it might need "a little work." We took
it to a reliable mechanic, who checked it over, tuned it up,
and told me that it was "a classic."
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