I read an article some weeks ago in which an academic—obviously desperate for publication—reported that people who gave names to their cars were more interested in driving than those of us who did not. Further, those who gave their car a feminine name were safer, more courteous drivers than those who assigned masculine names and behaved as road hogs.
It started me thinking about ways we identify with our cars. Whenever I drive into the common parking lot for our condominium, I can tell at a glance which of the other five families in our entry are at home. Cars are more reliable than lights, because most of us have lights on a timer. When we arrive on Friday for a weekend, this is helpful in knowing who to invite for a drink, if not for anything else.
I cannot do the same in my neighborhood because all of us have garages. Since our kids got out of school, I do not know half of the newer families on our block, much less match them up with cars.
It was different when I was growing up in a small town. Any of us youngsters could recognize half the people in town by their cars. This was particularly true during World War II. A few days after the United States got into the war, production of civilian autos stopped and the factories were put to making tanks and trucks for the army. What you had in December of 1941 was what you drove until the fall of 1945.
My father had a 1939 Dodge sedan. It was both his going-to-work car and the family vehicle. We had to make it last. Tires and gasoline were rationed. No vacations or even Sunday spins. The Dodge made it to 1949, finally giving way to a Plymouth.
Not only could we tell whose car most of them were. We could also tell if the owner was somewhere he should not have been. For example, Darrell was unhappily married to Georgette. If you had known Georgette, you would have sympathized. He got very active in the Elks Club, which gave him a reason to spend evenings out. But, instead of being parked near the club, we saw his car near Bedelia’s house because her husband worked nights. Somebody must have mentioned this to Darrell, because he started parking a block away. I’m sure they were only playing Parcheesi or maybe Chinese checkers. But what did I know at age 10.
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