A car with no name

I wrote recently about two cars in my past -- Tex, the Midnight Rambler, and Donny Dart. They had mechanical quirks that gave them personalities; they were partners in adventures.

It got me to thinking: Why is it that I don't have a name for the car I currently drive, a Honda Accord? Horace, Howard, Hillary?

I had traded in my wanderlust for the responsibility of marriage, family and job. Barreling around town in a slant-6, three-on-the floor, two-door Dart didn't make much sense with an infant in the back. There was more than the freedom of the road and the companion of a car to contend with.

And it came to pass that the passion for driving that we had when we were young was replaced by a need to drive as part the day-to-day hum-drum rhythm of our middle age lives. We've replaced the desire for character with the need for airbags and electric windows.

I remember several years ago as my sister was thinking about the need of a safe, sturdy family sedan, her husband Tim derided the car, saying, "It has no soul." And he was right -- and is right -- most cars are utilitarian machines that get us from Point A to Point B in a most antiseptic way.

When it came time for me to trade in wanderlust for practical, we bought a Volvo sedan. It was no Tex, it was no Donny. Driving Tex -- a 1966 Rambler Ambassador -- was an adventure in the rain because the pump that controlled the windshield wipers was failing, so it required a rope that I tied to the wiper arm, threaded through the driver's side window vent and pulled as needed to wipe the windshield. Driving Donny -- a 1976 Dodge Dart -- was an honor because it had muscle and it took me and a former spouse on a six-week cross-country trip in the late 1970s without one word of protest or hiccup.

I think I did give the Volvo a name out of tradition -- Vinny as I remember -- but it was the beginning of a string of bland sedans that I would and currently own. The Volvo became transportation, not a ride. It safely cocooned the family, first daughter Elizabeth then son David.

From the Volvo I migrated to a series of Honda Accords -- fine cars each and every one, but soulless.

The two cars I currently own are a 2000 Accord and a 2002 Mazda. I was driving the Mazda and Elizabeth, almost done with graduate school, was driving the Honda. But the Honda started to have health issues, so Elizabeth and I have swapped cars; she's driving the Mazda while I tend to the Accord. See? There's no fun, no passion here. Who drives what car is based on the pragmatic decisions of which car is suited for whose purposes.

The good news is that my wife Jane has cars with personality and thus names. She owns two black Honda Civics that are like Irish twins -- they share the same look but are separated by a couple of years. The older Civic is Thing 1 and the newer car is Thing 2. And yes we have the dolls of the Dr. Seuss characters -- Thing 1 and Thing 2 from "Cat in the Hat." She drives Thing 2 each day and she keeps Thing 1 around a) as back-up and b) as a car for her younger daughter to drive when she's home from college.

Thing 1 sits around most days, just waiting for attention. For much of this winter it was covered in a thick icing of frozen snow. It wasn't until a recent weekend that the grip of winter loosened enough for us to get it on the road again. It's got a problem with the fan for heat; when the fan is on for heat is makes a terrible racket. So what do you do? Turn the radio up real loud. It's what you have to do when a car tries to assert its personality over yours.