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I've been seeing a lot of yellow vehicles lately—yellow sedans and sports cars, school-bus-yellow RVs and trucks, and bright-yellow vans and motorcycles. Yellow must be the new popular choice. I like that.

My first car was a lemon-yellow 1971 Dodge Colt.  That was my high school graduation gift. I fell in love with it, at first sight. There were two colors available, and the Daddy liked the other one, which color I no longer remember. He was a great sport and let me have the yellow Colt. I think the Mama was disappointed that I didn't want some kind of flashy, sporty, or more feminine-looking car. The Daddy seemed to have no problem with the Colt being a boxy subcompact, as it ran perfectly and it was new. (The Daddy liked buying new vehicles.) It was also cheap. Very cheap, as I was happy with no radio, no air conditioning, no anything extra.

Emeline is what I called her. We definitely had some great adventures. The first was learning how to drive her. She was a stick shift. I could've gotten an automatic, but back then, stick shifts were standard and, hence, cheaper. Plus, I thought it was bolder and more fun to deal with gears. I had three teachers: the car dealer, the Older and Only Brother, and the Daddy. My driving made them all nervous and I believe quite scared. hahaha. The Daddy was the most patient teacher, meaning he gave me more than one lesson.

I drove Emeline for six years. She and I explored the back roads of Hollister and Central Coast California. We scrambled up and down the streets of San Francisco. She took me safely up and down California several times, as well as back and forth across the United States. I thought she had a magic bubble around her. Not one of the very hairy times was as bad as it could've been.  For instance, we crashed into an incoming car around a mountain bend. . .she hung precariously sideways on the side of a hill. . . the muffler fell off as I drove across the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. . .I turned onto a one-way street (the wrong way) in San Francisco one night. . .we made our way through a wicked storm in the middle of night in the South. . .I had to jump start Emeline at the top of one of the highest peaks in the Rockies. . . .

When the Older and Only Brother returned from his days of teaching in Australia, I gave him Emeline. I didn't need a car because I was living in San Francisco. I could walk, catch a bus, get a ride from a friend, or, if need be, borrow a car from a friend. The Brother eventually traded Emeline for a VW van. No doubt, I was annoyed. And, probably, if I had known he was going to do that, I would've bought her from him.

Emeline would be 44 years old today. Maybe I wouldn't be able to drive her anymore. That's okay. I would have turned her into a flower planter. Gosh, she would be so pretty sporting poppies, roses, four o-clock flowers, morning glories, sweet peas, and whatever else I felt like planting. Maybe, I'd take off her roof so that a tree could shoot upward from the back seat.


  1. We all have fond memories of our old cars. I love your love for your car. I had a 1970 Ambassador that never worked properly and quit on me at the most inopportune times. Those were the days...

    1. The Mama would've loved to have driven something like your Ambassador. She was always fearful that a big old truck would crush Emeline and me on the freeway.

  2. Heavens to Murgatriod! I named my first, and only motorbike, Emmaline Kara.


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Thanks for the good cheer. :-)

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