In 1985, my still-married parents decided it was a good year in which to buy a Subaru station wagon. My brother and I were around seven and four. We had outgrown my dad’s 1969 Firebird, which may mean we spilled enough ice cream cones in the back of it to make him finally break down and cry, and—even more uncharacteristically—buy a brand-new car.
For a few weekends we hung out in car lots. We learned about features. Sun roofs and power windows were the thing (our Subaru ended up with neither). Consumer reports rated my dad best kid-car consumer 1985. It was fun.
You are astute (and approaching middle age) if you have been thinking why, in 1985, were we not early adopters of the brilliant Dodge Caravan (wood paneling) or Plymouth Voyager (less wood paneling). I don’t know. I can only suspect that my dad felt there was an artistry to packing the back of a Subaru station wagon for a three-week camping trip with two grammar-school kids. After three to four hours it really would be stunning to behold, how the stuff he put in formed perfectly to the curved shape of the door that would nestle down on top like putting a tarp on a burial mound. We were to learn about patience, perseverance, and rear-view mirrors. Also that “I’m going to pack the car” meant to show up in the driveway around six hours later and be very, very quiet.
The Subaru was a nice shade of light blue, which matched 1982-1986 pretty well. It was only slightly less periwinkle than the shade of our later-purchased used Toyota Tercel station wagon (later named the “butt-car” for reasons that I will now be compelled to write about at a later time).
Before one camping trip, my mom decided to preserve the brand-new car by installing home-made seat covers on the backseat. By seat covers I really mean twin sheets. By installing I mean cutting holes in the sheets with pinking shears at approximately the places were the seat belts would come out. Inevitably, on a long car trip, or just by the end of Rochester Street, the sheets would shift completely and the seatbelt holes would be forever lost, so that upon re-entering the car we would hear four to six minutes of “Mom, I can’t find the seatbelt.” “Just reach in the hole.” “Mom, it isn’t in the hole.” “Yes it is, reach farther.” “Mom, I can’t find the seatbelt!” Etc. I suspect that at the beginning of the trip we made every effort to find the belt before taking off. Towards the end, my dad would probably just head right back out to the interstate and save that extra five to six minutes.
Unrelated to the sheet-covers, the seatbelts (only lap belts in those days!) were the first indication that something may not be right with the car. On occasion, once you found the belt in the nether-regions of the sheets (an exercise that would sometimes reward you with a fruit roll-up or a Kavli cracker) the belt would stubbornly refuse to come out more than a foot from the seat. We tugged and pulled. “Mom, I can’t get the seat belt out!” “Mom, the seat belt is stuck!” “Mom, I can’t get the seat belt out!” Etc. At which point my dad would get out, grit his teeth and slowly feed the belt back into its lair, after which he would pull it out at varying speeds until it yielded into his hands. It was like yoga for seatbelts. My mom, viewing the belts as less of a man vs. car challenge, was less patient with fixing the belts and at one point just gave up and told me to hold on to the foot length of belt sticking out of the hole and not let go until we got home.
I have heard that women’s hearing is more attuned to high-pitched frequencies, which is why they are more adept at hearing a baby’s cry at three in the morning (BULL). What this research failed to take into account is a man’s ability to discern the slightest squeak from the inside of a brand-new but suspiciously temperamental Japanese car. At times we would pull over in Nebraska in order to identify the origin of the squeak. Generally it was never pinpointed, but would either move or be canceled out by a different squeak emanating from a different spot, leading me to believe it was just the same phantom squeak moving from vent to vent looking for Kavli crackers. (One time, while camping, we actually did have mice in our engine, which my dad threw out by their tails. I thought that was awesome.)
We learned to love the car. Somehow it lasted longer than my parents’ marriage. We lived with the quirks. We got old enough not to need seat covers in the back. At this point the back seat was in terrific shape (as expected), but the front seats were so worn that we bought seat covers in matching blue fake shearling (I’m guessing around 1993). We filled it up with napkins and sugars from McDonalds, including one or two stirrers for a stirring emergency. My dad ingeniously (well, not according to my stepmom) “installed” a cardboard tissue box to the dashboard with a piece of cord. It remained long after it contained tissues. It remained long enough to become a family joke. When it was finally thrown away (because my stepmom rightfully couldn’t tolerate it disintegrating before her eyes) I couldn’t put my finger on why the car didn’t feel quite right. Something was different. I was in college.
Recently, my dad bought another car. A used car this time, because let’s face it the squeaks aren’t so bothersome in a used car. The Subaru was long gone (I told my stepmom I would support her if she drove it into the Iowa river). Around this time, my husband and I had finally decided to get rid of our beater car. We decided a convertible didn’t look very cool with a Graco SnugRide in the back. My dad generously offered us his old car, a 1997 Nissan Altima. Old but in great shape, good for the city. He had the brakes fixed and the oil changed. He put some new tires on. Re-taped the driver’s side mirror that somehow got broken off and then taped back on with some super-sticky and cheerful yellow tape. My husband, son and I drove it from Iowa to New York and read kids’ books at rest stops. We don’t drive much, so we don’t accumulate napkins or stirrers (though you might find plenty of whole grain goldfish crackers and probably an organic fruit leather). We haven’t had a tissue box spark of genius. It has a few dents and rust spots. I thought I would get that mirror fixed when I got it back home. I haven’t, and I probably won’t. I sort of like it. I’ll tell my dad to bring out some tape next time he comes.
