Carolyn J. Rose
When I was a kid, the family vehicles had no names. They
were referred to in
generic terms. “The truck.” “The Ford.” “The blue car.”
“That piece of crap
_____ (insert make and model of your choice).”
When driving up a steep hill or in snow, my father sometimes
used terms of
endearment. “Come on, baby, you can do it.” “That’s it,
honey.”
If a vehicle failed to start, sputtered to a stop, or slid
into a ditch, he used
colorfully descriptive profanity picked up in World War II. #$?!#
(And, no, I won’t provide examples of the nouns and adjectives.)
In retrospect, I owned several cars that cried out for
names—humorous,
flattering, or unfortunate. But the VW bug with fading
salmon paint, the
Datsun F-10, and the Ford Escort remained nameless until
they went to the
wrecking yard or on to other owners.
And then I met a man with a Monte Carlo he’d named Yvonne Dee (Remember
Lily on The Munsters?)
from then on my cars had names. Moby Grape. Inkspot.
Windfall. Big Red
(now named Rosalita by new owners who, as you may have
guessed, are
huge Springsteen fans).
When I admitted to friends that I name my cars, I was often
met with scoffing
disbelief. But sometimes I found kindred spirits. A friend
named her car
Bluebaru. Others ride around in cars named Buckey and Poppy.
My sister-in-
law takes her canines to their favorite haunts driving Dog
Car. My husband’s
Leaf is named Erikson.
My favorite, though, is the name given to a car owned by
parents of a friend
decades ago: Leapin’ Lena. She (and, yes, I tend to assign
genders to cars)
earned the name because too much sudden pressure on the gas
pedal resulted
in a leap and a lean. I think she would have been a terrific car to convey a
dozen clowns to the center ring at a circus.
