A story about rusted brakes, midnight Denny’s runs, and the poetry of old cars and the life we live with them. I wasn’t sure whether to share this, but I’m fond of the roads we’ve traveled. From Earl to Shazam… and beyond.

Our first car was a 1982 Honda Civic. We called him Earl. Bought him for $100 cash and a few nights of babysitting. No heater. Bad brakes. But he enjoyed our company, and at the time, that was everything. It was our first year of being married. Newly in love, we would drive to Denny’s at 3 a.m. in the winter under heavy blankets and then wait in the Barnes & Noble parking lot until they opened so we could spend the last of our money on books. Sleeping or talking while the windows frosted with our breath.

After Earl came Jack, our bright blue 1996 Dodge Neon, bought on a cold February night in ‘97. It was the “Hi.” era of car ads, and we went everywhere in New England with him. Techno on CD. 99.9 Alternative on the radio. Jack was cheerful and modern and ours — until he wasn’t. We couldn’t keep up with the payments, and Jack was repossessed while I was working a shift at Dunkin’ Donuts. That was a hard one. The driveway felt hollow for a while as we drove around my mom’s van for a few months and lived in a small room someone had built in their garage.

And then we found Cid just before moving to Massachusetts. He was a 1986 Dodge/Chrysler two-door hatchback with serious ’80s wedge car energy. He looked like he had tried out for Knight Rider and didn’t get the part. Cid was scrappy and strange, and the brakes weren’t much better than Earl’s. It was also our first child’s first car, which when I look back on it makes me feel blessed that everything went okay — the car seat barely fit in the back and had to be strapped into the middle of the rear bench.

After Cid came Clark, a 1993 Ford Escort Wagon, a family hand-me-down. Clark was my reporter-mobile — I was writing for small-town papers in the late 90’s and early 00’s, chasing stories and hoping the axle wouldn’t fall out along the way — and the first car we listened to MP3s in! Somewhere in there, a high-ranking city official made sure a full muffler overhaul was free (a relative owned the garage and they refused to take my money) — hoping, I like to imagine, for kind coverage. I took the muffler. I left the story as I had already written it.

Eventually the rear suspension rods poked through the wheel wells somewhere in Central Mass on Route 2 (if you know, you know), and that was the end of Clark. For awhile, we walked and took the train, and I learned how many groceries could fit into the bottom of a baby stroller.

The Saab years came next. First, an ’86 Saab 900 that I found up here in Vermont. A beautiful classic car with Blackout mode, a wrap-around dash, and a tapedeck! We were rear-ended by an off-duty cop at a stoplight in Massachusetts about a year into owning it. A standard, I loved shifting through the curvy roads of Coastal Mass. Like the 1980s throwback mix tape we listened to in it, that car felt alive. Then, the ‘94 Saab 900S we got during a period I barely remember. I bought that one off eBay — yes, eBay — and poured a lot into it trying to keep it going. I loved that car.

Until the Escape.

Our first Escape was a 2005. We named it Cognito. It felt like a lifeline — like something had shown up to carry us when we were too tired to walk. It was smooth, reliable, and just futuristic enough. Over the years, the Escape became our ride of choice. We had a 2010 Escape named Charlie the Unicorn Car, which was totaled in a side-swipe while our youngest child was with me. Then a 2012 Escape, named Isa, who carried us through years of long drives and short budgets. After that came Shazam, our 2019 Escape, full of modern flair and quiet confidence that supported us during the worst of my mental health issues — even as my mind and career fell out from under me and I neglected its care. Until the engine finally gave out after a round trip to Arizona and miles and miles of NEK healing drives and was then washed away in the July flood of 2023.

After that, my sister’s in-laws donated a 2014 Dodge Caravan that has served us very well this past year or so, even as the maintenance costs rise and become too frequent.

So it became time. And since I just turned 50, I wanted to treat us. And for the first time in my life, I was able to finance a brand-new car. A 2025 Ford Escape hybrid. Vapor metallic blue. AWD. Sustainable(er). Feels like a spaceship, looks like an attacking midfielder on a mission. And it’s ours.

This moment might not mean much to some. But for us? It’s a full-circle moment. It’s the latest chapter in a story that starts with rust, frozen drives, duct tape and something like hope.

We’ve been carless for long stretches along the way, including quite recently. Sometimes a year at a time. It humbles you. When it’s not a sustainability choice, walking makes you think about what cars really represent. Not status. Not noise. Just movement. Freedom. Shelter. A place to cry where no one sees you. A room to hear your music as loud as you want. A way to leave for awhile when staying would hurt too much. A way to return when you’re ready to come back.

This new Escape isn’t just a car. It’s a gift to the road-worn selves we’ve been. It’s a reward we never expected. A spaceship we somehow earned.

And somewhere out there, I hope that Earl is smiling, knowing he began a legacy of connection to what ultimately became more than simple vehicles, but elements in a life story I’m beginning to believe was worth living.