Today’s chosen suggestion from the book “The Story of My Life”: “Describe your first car you owned. How did it come into your life, and how did it change your life?”

Do you remember the AutoTrader? Back in the day, it was in print, not online, and you’d flip and scan each page searching for your dream car, truck, camper, motorcycle, or mini-van. Most likely, you’d find your beaut, show your parents which one you want, and then go wash the ink off your hands. P.S. They didn’t say yes to the car. Today, you can surf the web, and within seconds, buy your car and have it delivered. My, my, my. Times have changed.

My first car was actually not spotted in The AutoTrader. It was spotted in my Granny and Gramps’ garage, purchased either with an I.O.U note or possibly cash and driven 100 feet from their home to our driveway; they had upgraded and my twin sister and I finally had some wheels. Since we were pert near attached at the hip, we were to share a vehicle too. A Plymouth Voyageur circa some year in the 1980s. Well, that’s what the outside of the driver’s door proposed, but Dodge Caravan was printed inside so…she had some body dysmorphia.

That mini-van drove well at 55mph and hummed at 80-90. When riding together, I’d have my sister turn and look out the giant rear window while I moved the steering wheel left and right, again and again, while we laughed and watched our own comedy unroll, all while hoping that our vehicle didn’t, ummm, roll. We were successful. No accidents during those skits called “Watch this!”.

She may not have been a fancy Lotus, but she sure cornered like she was on rails (Thank you Julia Roberts AKA Vivian Ward). We aptly named her the “Screaming Bitch”. Ahhh, the memories.

A mini-van for your ride as a high school student may have bumped us down the “Cool” ladder a rung or three, but we didn’t care. We had freedom. Well, kind of. There were rules like two weeks of being grounded from driving if we didn’t wear our seatbelts, and mom was an eagle eye. It only happened a couple times and since my sister and I shared the car, the Law Breaker just had to ride shotgun while the Angel drove. You know, the Angel who loved making the van sway back and forth by cranking the wheel left and right? She didn’t know about that, but my guess is neither one of us would have been driving for a month if she did. Another rule, and the last one, ask before you go and let Mom know the destination and time of arrival home. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

The Screaming Bitch and we sisters became good friends, great friends really. The cool mornings and the sweltering afternoons after school, the glare ice and slushy snow in the wintertime and the maroon fabric bucket seats really brought us together. She handled our country roads like a dream, fit so well into our circle of friends, and without her, we would have been begging for rides to school from our sister or riding the bus. Living 40 minutes from our building of learning (surrounded by farm fields), and having a van allowed us a life.

I can’t remember the length of our relationship with the Screaming Bitch, memories have faded with time, but on a summer night many years ago, our time together ended.

That night, bad decisions were made and she met her demise in a ditch north of town. Soon after, her care was transferred to my Uncle. That day, I remember clearly; my uncle rolling into our drive hauling a trailer under a hot Minnesota sun, while I watched from the front step of our house slowly scanning The Autotrader, turning the pages with ink-stained fingers. She was probably going to be sold for scrap. Dammit. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. We loved her though and think of her often. She and her wheels are a well of laughs and we will always remember her dearly.

R.I.P. Screaming Bitch. May every heavenly road you travel be long and straight so you can sway and hum to your heart’s content.