First Love

I was a little older than most, when I had my first: rather than being a teenager, like all the other kids, I was already out of school. A college graduate, even. I was 21. And my first love? A 1972, yellow, Volkswagen bug. I bought ‘im with my own money. A thousand dollars cash that I had leftover in funds I had earned from a part time job at the college bookstore that had helped stretch my student loan and grant money. Trying to afford an apartment, even with nine other roommates in a two-floor flat in San Francisco, it took everything I had to make that money stretch!

A car was often a liability more than help, living in The City; parking was impossible to find, insurance rates were outrageous, and with public transportation so abundant, it seemed silly to have a car. The bus stopped right outside my flat, and again right outside the University. The train went everywhere else. True, I had to take the bus, train, shuttle, and a plane if I wanted to visit my parents in Oregon, where I was to end up meeting the love of my life: the bug that I plunked down the last of my cash to obtain. But, I didn’t have the time, money, or desire to see my parents very often while I was going to school. So the bus, train, shuttle, and plane ride only came up a few times a year. Although, when it did, it still sucked. A lot.

In fact, the first time that I had to subject myself to the bus, train, shuttle, plane ride thing, I couldn’t believe that I would ever do it again. My parents had just moved away from the Bay Area to Oregon, which I was informed of after the house was bought and the boxes were about to be packed. My family isn’t always real big on communication. My parents were kind of against talking, hugging, and expressing emotions. We were all more in favor of eating pancakes.

I had just started my junior year at school. Apparently, the parents had taken a weekend trip to Salem where their favorite restaurant, The Pancake House, was. Yes, they drove like 15 hours to go eat pancakes. They would do stuff like that. Even with some of the finest restaurants in the world just 40 miles away in San Francisco, there were no good pancakes. So, they called me upon returning to the home where I had grown up, and said, “Guess, what, we’re moving!” “You’re what?” I asked, not really listening to the first couple of words, but definitely focused once I heard the last. “Moving!” my mother said, breathlessly, “to Oregon, next month! It’s the cutest little house, it’s in Salem, it’s a hundred years old…” I couldn’t focus anymore. It was my turn, “Why? When? What? Why?” I know I asked why twice, but it just didn’t make sense. “Well,” my dad got on the phone, “Look, Sauce.” He always called me that. Short for Sauci. “We don’t like living in California. Your mother never has. And now that you’re all settled in your own place, and you don’t call, write, or visit, we figured that you could not call, not write, and not visit us in Oregon.” Hmph. Go figger! “So, I bought your mom a house.” He finished rather quietly, which was rather like him. No drama. He bought her a house. Not “We bought a house.” He “bought her a house.” Interesting. I had to say something. “So, when are you moving?” “Next month,” he said. “We’re going to put this one on the market, and while it sells, we’re going to get everything ready to go, but you need to be ready to have Thanksgiving in Salem this year.” Hmph. Oregon. Sounded gross.

Well, it was true. I did end up traveling to Oregon for Thanksgiving that year. And, not to give anything away, really, it was gross. But, I digress. I packed my stuff, took the bus to the BART station. The BART train took me to the airport shuttle. The shuttle took me to the airport. I got on a plane for the first time since I was six. I had actually gotten a little tipsy at the airport, and then decided that was a bad idea, once on the plane. I drank coffee on the plane, instead. I tried to get my head together…and I flew to Portland.

My dad picked me up and drove me to Salem in the most freezing cold that I had ever experienced. I was a Cali girl! Even as a Northern Cali girl, what did I know of the cold? I decided that this Oregon thing was the first sign of my parents going completely senile. As we finally neared Salem, I told my dad how glad I was that we were done traveling. I was soooo tired, and with Thanksgiving being the next day, all I wanted to do was sleep and eat mom’s turkey. That’s when he told me that actually, no, we would be having Thanksgiving with Auntie Edie and Uncle John. Augh. Auntie Edie was about half-past crazy, and Uncle John was running way ahead of her on the crazy-o-meter.

I asked if they were at the house already, so I could prepare myself. That’s when he let the other shoe drop. We would actually be going to Uncle’s cabin. That place was just outside of Seattle! That meant almost 5 hours of driving tomorrow. Oh. My. Gosh. I wanted to ask why they hadn’t just flown me into Seattle, but I was too tired, too cold, and too…demoralized…to even ask. I just mumbled something about whether we were close to the new house yet. He announced proudly, “Here we are!” and pulled up in front of the smallest house I had ever seen.

My mom was doing a dance as I walked inside that made her look like she had to pee, but I assumed that she was just really, really proud of what she kept calling her “Little Dollhouse.” I tried to look excited. I pulled off a diplomatic, “Wow.” Inside, there was one actual bedroom. Asking, “Where do I sleep?” she answered with a proud gesture toward a room that looked like part of the living room, but apparently had folding doors that turned it into “My room.” Super. I folded the doors closed, and collapsed. I could hear my parents asking, “What is wrong with her now?” and discussing what they could do to “Adjust” my “Attitude” in time for tomorrow.

As we traveled to Auntie and Uncle’s cabin, my parents told and retold their grand adventure of how they found their precious dollhouse. And how happy they were to escape the rat race. And how delightful their new life was. And how they didn’t miss anything or anyone at all (thanks! I mumbled from the backseat…feeling very two years old). I’d been hoping the holiday would be a happy reunion, and not a pissing match or grudge match, or any other kind of match (and wondering why I expected my family to suddenly morph into “The Walton’s” every year, and why I even knew anything about “The Walton’s,” since I had never even seen an episode when I was growing up. I know I’m a freak. Someday I am going to make a list of all the Great American television…ok…maybe not great, but at least normal, television, that I did not see when I was a kid.) This is the weird stuff that I was thinking about instead of listening to the actual list of stuff of “What was wrong?” with me that my parents had moved onto in the front seat, when we (FINALLY) arrived.

I admit I was not in a proper holiday-ish mood when we arrived. I was not into the whole “Little House on the Prairie” thing my family seemed to be trying to rock that year (ok, that’s a show that I actually watched a few times; I don’t know how I got away with that one). I was cold. I was hungry. I was tired. I had used possibly every form of transportation known to man, aside from a boat, to get to that stupid cabin. In we walked, and the first thing that my Uncle John said to anyone, was directed at me. And that was, “Hey! You’ve gotten fat!” Yep. From the 350 pound man who couldn’t get out of his chair without help? Yep. From the man who had a good 230 pounds on me? Still and again, a resounding yep. I had no response. I thought of some, but none were really Walton’s worthy. Besides, even though I had city-girl mode going on outside, I was all Mary Ellen & John Boy on the inside.

All I could muster for rest of the day, the ride home, the rest of the visit, ride to the airport, and wait for the airplane, was the silent treatment for everyone. Oh, and as a side note: I had to do that whole plane, shuttle, train, and bus trip backwards of course, to get home. As a bonus, the train broke down in the tunnel. Then, the handle broke on my suitcase as I was walking out of said tunnel. No joke. I was so despondent at that point, that I took the last of my cash and hailed a cab to take me the rest of the way to my apartment. I think it was one of the best investments I ever made.

Now you may wonder what in the heck this all has to do with why I fell in love with a 1972 yellow, VW bug. Well, that baby gave me my freedom. Granted, I didn’t give in to the temptation until I was out of San Francisco, and ironically, living in Salem (I know, but it must have been that little bit of “The Walton’s” in me.) With my little bug, I never felt trapped like I did that cold, miserable Thanksgiving. Knowing that your best friend is there to back you up (unless he’s outta gas, in which case, you’re pushin’ ‘im to the curb and calling Triple A) but even then…there’s no insults hurled; no hurt feelings. That’s what a good relationship should be. I know it’s “just a car”, but if you ask almost anyone about their first car they’ll probably get as nostalgic as they are about any first “love”, too.