Cars I’ve Known–a Timeline
Cars don’t just get us from one place to another. Over time, they begin to hold our lives—who we were, where we were going, and what we were learning along the way. When I look back, I can trace whole seasons of my life through the cars that carried me there.
The First Cars: Learning the Language
The first car is the one that means freedom. It’s also the one that teaches you—often the hard way—that freedom requires attention.
My first car was Grandma Is’ 1972 Mercury Comet. It sat in storage until the second semester of my sophomore year of college, when it finally became mine to drive. I’ve written about that season before and called it Changing Lanes. That same Comet carried me all the way to Washington, D.C., for a summer church-sponsored Youth Leadership Training Conference—an adventure I later captured in a piece titled A Crash Far From Home.
For years, that car took me back and forth to Eau Claire. It carried me to the East Coast for a summer and back again—hobbling, but determined.
Whenever I came home from school, my dad checked the oil and filled the gas tank. His advice was simple and firm:
If the engine light comes on, pull over and stop the car—immediately.
Back then, I didn’t know much about oil changes, warning lights, or limits. Maintenance, at that stage, meant learning responsibility in real time, with someone else quietly watching out for me.
When we moved down to Memphis, Tennessee, we passed the Comet on to my sister Michelle. The radiator continued to have issues until the end. She kept gallon jugs of water in the back seat, topping it off just enough to keep going.
After Tom and I married and graduated, we qualified for a new-graduate car loan and bought a blue 1988 Dodge Beretta GT. Sporty and fun, it felt like a step forward. Tom insisted on a manual transmission—better gas mileage, he said, and definitely more fun.
He was right.
We drove that car on our honeymoon to Virginia, winding up, over, and around the hills of Shenandoah National Park. Eventually, we sold it to a friend after it hit 150,000 miles. He drove it all the way to 320,000. That car served us well.
When it came time for a family car, function won out. We bought a four-door white Toyota Camry. Ironically, it never carried kids. Its demise came after an oil change when the mechanic failed to tighten the cap correctly. Even after Craig replaced the damaged piston heads, the engine still made a noise—the kind of noise that tells you it’s time. (Not good.)
Right before we divorced, Tom and I purchased a black Acura Integra. We had considered a Mazda Miata, but Tom looked like a giant climbing out of a clown car. The Integra, with its leather seats, made him feel rich—or sexy, I suppose.
The Family Cars: Function Over Feeling
Family cars aren’t admired. They’re depended on.
They hold crumbs, car seats, sticky cup holders, and the steady movement of everyday life. In this season, maintenance becomes survival—reliable, unglamorous, constant.
Our real family car was an Oldsmobile Silhouette. By then, we had our boys, and I loved the built-in movie screens on the backs of the front seats. I played educational videos, The Wiggles, and even cartoons from Russia on DVD.
Next came the Dodge Traverse, a vehicle I truly loved. Near the end of its life, Craig started suggesting we look for something new. I hesitated. Then it began to feel “funny” when I accelerated.
Eventually, I agreed.
We drove to Janesville and Johnson Creek to look at a few cars that caught our eye. At the intersection by Culver’s, right off the interstate, the Traverse took its last breath and rolled to a stop. Craig and I pushed it off the main drag and waited with burgers and fries while he made arrangements for a tow.
This is the season when time moves the fastest—and maintenance often waits until the car decides for you.
The Road-Trip Car: Holding the Big Stuff
Some cars witness everything.
They absorb long drives, silence, and laughter. Coffee cups and Kwik Trip sandwich wrappers wedge into door holders and lay on the floor. In this phase, maintenance is about keeping things running while life feels too full.
This category belongs to Craig’s trucks.
When I first met him, he drove a cherry-red Ford Ranger. It worked perfectly for hauling supplies and setting up an air mattress with a wooden shelf for weekend trips. The dogs loved the back, especially with the cab cover and screened window that let fresh air roll through.
Since then, Craig has gone through a series of Ford F-150 extended cabs, each one fancier than the last. He uses his truck for servicing stoves for our Hoffman Homewoods business—lots of tools in the back end and plenty of mess in the back seat.
That truck has taken us to Texas to pick up Aubrey and to Pennsylvania for a pellet stove fix-it workshop. It has hauled our family back and forth to our cottage in Door County more times than I can count. His current truck has heated and air-conditioned leather seats—luxury layered over miles and memories.
The Car I’m Driving Now
These days, I drive a black 2017 Ford Explorer. Like most of my vehicles, it’s eight years old, has just over 100,000 miles, and carries my hope that it will go twice that.
This stage of life expects a little luxury. The Explorer offers heated, cooled, and massaging leather seats. It stays cleaner now than it did when my kids were little—but not by much. I still have little kids in car seats, leaving schmootz in the cup holders and crumbs on the floor mats.
My relationship with maintenance hasn’t changed much.
I ignore the crack along the top of the front windshield and the squeaking brakes. Panic stays just barely in check when the driver’s-side wiper flies off and scratches back and forth across the windshield. Each time I fill the gas tank, I check the back driver’s-side tire—the one with the nail in it. The back driver-side tire presser sensor no longer works, so…yeaaaah…
At this point, maintenance should be intention rather than reaction. Most days, though, it’s still me—doing just enough to keep moving forward.
Cars don’t just carry us places. They carry seasons and memories.
These days, Craig’s advice stays with me: Check the oil. Keep air in the tires. Keep gas in the tank. It’s steady and uncomplicated—less about urgency and more about care. Somewhere between learning when to stop and knowing when it’s enough to simply keep going, I’ve come to understand that maintenance isn’t really about engines at all. It’s about attention. About noticing before something forces you to—and trusting that the basics, tended regularly, will carry you
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