Name That Car

 

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?) 

The mental door of imagination opened. I married him. And

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.