Memoir
/ˈmemˌwär/ noun. a record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation. Usually memoirs. an account of one's personal life and experiences; autobiography. the published record of the proceedings of a group or organization, as of a learned society.
At this stage of life I realize it’s not the possessions of our youth that mean so much to us but the memories we attach to those physical objects. No single thing impacts a teenager as much as their first car. A car is a ticket to the many freedoms and responsibilities of adulthood. As we get older there’s a strong desire to recapture some of the excitement of youth but, as hard as we try, we can never relive those moments. The very best we can do is just be grateful that they happened in the first place.
Memoir Monday has grown so much that I won’t be able to comment on everyone’s posts anymore (and get my own work done) but I’ll still be supporting your posts with reblogs, votes, and shares on my other social media accounts (X, Facebook, etc.).
For all of those who’ve regularly participated in Memoir Monday - keep going, you’re making great progress in chronicling your very own life story for future generations to enjoy.
For those who missed the inaugural post explaining what the Memoir Monday initiative is all about you can find it here.
Now for next week’s Memoir Monday prompt:
What was your first car?
My answer:
The first car I ever paid for was a metallic brown (yes, that color actually had a moment in the 1970s) 1972 Chevy Caprice with a white vinyl top. I bought it from my aunt for $300 in 1986 when I was just 15 years old. I hesitate to call this behemoth my "first car" because the engine was in such bad shape that I only managed to drive it once—just a single loop around the block in which the entire exhaust system fell off. Shortly after, I traded it for something with a bit more potential: a 1968 Honda CB350 motorcycle.
The CB350 and I had a brief and rocky relationship as well. One day, while riding through an alley, I hit some gravel and was launched over the handlebars. Fortunately, I walked away with nothing more than some road rash and a bruised ego. After that incident, my interest in the Honda fizzled out pretty quickly and I sold it. After this I relied on my parent's 1978 Dodge Monaco when I needed to go anywhere.
Fast-forward to 1989, a couple of years later. By then, Hondas were becoming a big deal in Ohio, thanks to the Honda factory in Marysville. One afternoon, I wandered into a local dealership to check out their used inventory. Among the rows of cars, one in particular caught my eye—a five-speed 1986 Honda CRX HF. It was pristine, with low mileage and an immaculate interior. The fact that it was a two-seater gave it an irresistible charm, and compared to most cars of that era, it felt like a spaceship.
The price? Just a tad under $5,000—a small fortune for someone who was washing dishes at a diner. But I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. The next day, I returned to the dealership and somehow managed to get approved for a loan. (To this day, I have no idea how they gave a teenager with a dishwashing gig a car loan, but I wasn’t about to question it.)
The day I picked it up, my mom and brother came with me. It was surreal, like a dream come true. There was just one hitch: I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. Still, I wasn’t about to let that minor detail get in the way. My brother, showing extraordinary bravery, rode shotgun on the way home. Miraculously, we made it home only stalling a couple of times.
Finally, I had my own car—a reliable one, at that. The CRX HF wasn’t exactly a powerhouse, boasting a less-than-impressive 58 horsepower, but what it lacked in speed, it made up for in handling. It was light, perfectly balanced, and handled like a Porsche 911 (running on half the cylinders). I could take curved highway cloverleaf ramps at 70 mph without so much as a squeal from the tires. And to top it off, it got an incredible 50 miles per gallon.
That little CRX became my partner in the adventures of young adulthood. I drove it everywhere—from road trips to Florida to countless jaunts around the Midwest. It stayed with me through the next four years of my life. Since then, I’ve owned better, faster, and more comfortable cars, but none of them hold the same place in my heart. The CRX wasn’t just my car; it was my freedom, my milestone-maker, and my ticket to unforgettable memories. It will always be my favorite.
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