“Here are the keys. Now drive carefully. And don’t forget–make your car payment on time. The loan’s in my name.”
It was 1972. I was a college sophomore. Dad had just dropped off my first car at the dry cleaners where I worked part time.
It wasn’t busy, so my co-worker Barbara and I dashed outside. There it was-a beige 1966 Dodge Dart –the original “driven by an old lady to church on Sundays” vehicle, with low mileage and a good maintenance record. It wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t a Mustang or GTO, but it had personality, and it seemed to be female. The perfect name popped into my head-Maggie.
She had an automatic transmission, but no radio or air conditioning. I drove with a transistor on the dash board, windows wide open in the summer. Maggie had a powerful heater, though, much appreciated on chilly nights talking-or smooching-with my boyfriend, whom I married in 1977.
When Maggie and I drove into a service station, mechanics spilled out of the garage like ants, swarming and nearly swooning over her famous slant-six engine. “You can’t kill those engines,” one said reverently once as he closed her hood.
However, Maggie was a finicky starter. I knew, of course, just how much pedal would get her going, but brothers, sisters, and thieves just didn’t have the knack. While away on spring break, I left Maggie for my teenage brother and sister. The complaints started as soon as I walked in-“Your car wouldn’t start. We couldn’t use it all week.”
I went outside, got in, prayed a little, and begged her. “Come on, Maggie…..” I turned the key and pressed the gas pedal. She started right up.
Three times Maggie’s temperament kept her from being stolen. Once a carnapper rolled her down the street , only to abandon her a few houses down. Another tried unsuccessfully to steal her from a parking lot, then defiled her by squeezing coconut sun lotion all over the seats. I cleaned her up, but she smelled like coconut for years. Finally, at 2 am one snowy night in 1978, the police called to report Maggie was running, lights ablaze, doors open and heater on, in our apartment parking lot. We ran outside, and started to laugh. Maggie had foiled a thief once again-she had started, but had stubbornly refused to back up over the crusty snow ruts and was stuck-yet I could get her out easily.
By 1979, Maggie’s gas tank began to leak and needed replacement. New parts weren’t available, and I needed reliable transportation for my teaching job. Reluctantly, I purchased a new car.
I sold Maggie, still graceful in old age, for $50 to a delighted young woman whose older brother was a mechanic. He found Maggie a junkyard gas tank and fixed her up. The last I heard, she was running nicely for her new owner. Maggie was special, and I never felt the urge to name any other car I’ve owned.