An Ode to My Crappy First Car

A five-speed hatchback, you came home from an auction with my frugal father. My sister snubbed her nose at you, but to my 15-year-old self, you looked like freedom.

You gave me time to see how patient my father was. I had to learn how to drive you out on empty dirt roads because I did so much stopping and starting again, but he was forgiving and funny. He never yelled or made me feel incompetent. When I was older and got into an accident, he calmly told me, “Cars can be fixed. I am just glad you are OK.” You reminded me that he loved me and wanted to provide for me as best as he could.

You taught me how to make it up hills and over train tracks, even though I stalled out and the cars behind me honked. Pushing through awkwardness and embarrassment is a pretty essential life skill, if you ask me! You taught me that even when you think you have totally run out of gas, sometimes you can point your car downhill and all the gas will run into the engine, and you can still sputter down the road to the gas station without making your friend late for school again. (Sorry, Lindsey!) You taught me that there are a lot of moving parts in engines, but they all cease to work when it runs completely out of oil. I still feel a little bit sad that you came to such an undignified end, but I swear I didn’t know you had a leak!

You taught me the value of hard work, unglamorous as it was, as having a job was required for me to get a hardship license. I wasn’t allowed to just put on the application that I worked for my father’s company. He straight-up made me the weekend janitor, so I spent at least three or four hours on either Saturday or Sunday cleaning bathrooms, emptying everyone’s trash, shredding documents, and vacuuming the entire building. I think I got paid $5 an hour. But I had a job, and because of that, I could get myself around whenever I wanted.

You showed me that possessions are just that. Because I already had a crappy old car, it wasn’t worth getting upset when another terrible teenage driver just like myself accidentally bumped into it in the school parking lot. What was one more scratch on a car that was made the year that I was born? I think it helped prepare me for the sweet minivan that I drive today, full of crumbs and haphazardly colored drawings and forgotten backpacks all the time. I have never felt like my car was a reflection of my identity or worth.

One might (rightfully) say that you were a terribly, ugly, and embarrassing car for a teenage girl to show up with when the cool kids got Camaros and Mustangs, but you gave me some good memories and some great life lessons. May my children long hear the tales of you, Isuzu Impulse!

Were you part of the Crappy First Car Club? Share your stories with us in the comments!

Katie
Katie is a small town girl raising a family in the big city. She grew up in Abilene surrounded by strong women and one patient father. She met the love of her life at only 17, and they both later graduated from McMurry University and moved to San Antonio in 2004. Katie was part of San Antonio’s inaugural Listen to Your Mother show in 2016 and is a happy working mom of three kids. Katie loves to talk about shoes, podcasts, rescue dogs, and her family of mostly redheads. She is held together daily by espresso and Jesus.