That ‘68 Rambler, the name says it all. I owned that car when Mrs. Robinson seduced Benjamin Braddock, when plastics were going to change the world, when my friend Ronni and I in the mountains …
That ‘68 Rambler, the name says it all.
I owned that car when Mrs. Robinson seduced
Benjamin Braddock, when plastics were going
to change the world, when my friend Ronni and I
in the mountains of upstate New York pulled off
the road each time Simon and Garfunkel’s
“Mrs. Robinson” played so loud on the car radio,
it echoed through the valley.
This was the car my husband later totaled
as if to say, Your Rambling days are done.
I loved my VW Beetle for its thrift and ease
of parking and oh, so politically correct at the time.
But we needed the Dodge van for the motorcycle
we planned on riding through Yellowstone Park.
When our awareness of mortality took over
and we sold the bike, a yellow Rabbit won my heart.
And I remember the day a colleague commented on my car,
Too square for you, he said, so I traded the Rabbit
for a sporty Nissan, silver, sleek and sexy.
I’ll forever associate that car with a male friend
in downtown Brooklyn, impatient with traffic,
he reached across from the passenger side
and without consulting me, he honked my car horn!
I fell in love with metallic blue and bought an Acura Integra,
a sad car, my marriage and me in crisis,
this car bought without my husband’s presence or input.
And the next blue car, a Honda Civic Si, single again,
in love with my life, my car, its power and mine.
These days I drive a 4-door Honda, midnight plum,
roomy enough for skis, my bike and friends.
A perfect Fit.