Cruising

The motorheads were in their glory. Mr. and I were strictly amateur, but we enjoyed the ride.

It was the St. Pat's Cruise In. Featuring a few dozen classic (and modern classic) automobiles.

My beloved and I tried to peer knowingly into each engine and nod approvingly. Then we'd take a look-see at the controls, the upholstery, the amenities. It was interesting but not personally engaging.

Until it was.

I stopped in my tracks. Could it be? I had to ask the year. 1966. Chevy. Impala. Station. Wagon. Oh, yeah. Now it was personal.

The car I viewed at the show was gold, although the owner said they also had one in blue. BLUE! I sighed.

The car formerly (and forever) known as "Big Blue" was purchased new by my parents. It seated nine (three bench seats), so it was big enough for the eight of us. When we traveled together, my parents sat in the front with my youngest brother between them (in an over-the-seat contraption that could never be called safe). My two sisters and I sat in the center. (I sat in the middle on "the hump.") And my two older brothers sat in the rear seat, which faced backward. On long trips, my folks would put down the back seat, and the boys were allowed to recline. They would stick their feet out the back window, but only in the country. My mom would admonish them to retract their tootsies when we traveled through a town, so we didn't look like rubes.

When I came of age, I drove Big Blue for a time. But it wasn't pretty. I had to sit on a cushion to see over the steering wheel, which amused other drivers no end. There was no power anything in that car, so I acquired a few extra muscles turning the wheel. And parking it was like trying to dock the QE2. What amazes me is that my mom drove that car for years, and she made it look easy, even though she wasn't much bigger than I. It was really her car. Later, my younger brother became its proud master, and he would squire Big Blue all over town.

It's funny what you forget, though. When we were at the Cruise In, I noticed the step-ups on the back of the car. I'd forgotten they were there...one on either side of the back drop-down door, to help you get in and out. Thinking about it now, you had to be fairly agile to maneuver yourself into the rear seat.

At work the next day, we were talking about classic cars, and the younger folks were recalling the car in which they learned to drive. Dana remarked that somehow, she didn't think people in the future would be quite as nostalgic about their first car.

The first automobile I owned was a Toyota Tercel. It was a great little car, and I loved the hatchback and rear wiper, but there hasn't been a time when I've thought about trying to buy a restored model.

Mr. asked me, "So, if you won the lottery, what classic car would you buy?"

My first thought was, Aston Martin. He scoffed. He pointed out that it has a stick shift, which I can't operate. And it has too much power for me.

I pointed out that it would be perfect for zipping up and down Big Sur after I bought that beachfront property in California. Also, I could learn to drive with a shift. If I had a real incentive. Like an Aston Martin.

Back to reality, I know my next car will likely be a Corolla. At this stage of the game, reliability wins out over fun. And, let's face it, I would just look old and silly behind the wheel of a convertible sports car.

But somewhere, deep inside, there's a part of me that can just feel the wind whipping through my hair, the ocean breezes calling me, zooming along coastal roads. Channeling my inner Kim Novak.

Oh, yeah.