In our family cars were handed down from one to another the way outgrown clothes are passed down in other families. We never traded them in with new purchases, we just passed them along and drove them to the ground.

I loved to drive and took every opportunity to be at the wheel, so when I got my first car, a mustard colour Toyota Corolla, I thrilled for the freedom and independence it gave me. It had been my brother’s first car. It was bestowed on me because my father needed a station wagon for his work so the emerald green, two door Mercury sedan became my brother’s.

I loved that little Toyota but I hated the mustard yellow so I had it painted a shiny chocolate brown. Fortuitously, my boyfriend du jour worked at a carpet store and was able to install a lush orange shag in it, ‘wall to wall’, which tickled my toes when I drove barefoot. It was my baby limo.

I used to take long drives out on Gouin Blvd., winding through stretches of forest where on sunny days, light danced strobe-like around me. Sometimes I would go for long nocturnal drives on the empty autoroutes, windows open, music blaring with no one caring, singing madly, exhilarated by speed. I raced round the curves of the Bonaventure Autoroute where lights were embedded in the concrete barriers on both sides. They blurred by in a continuous streak at driver’s eye level. The music, the wind, the speed and the white streaks of light made me euphoric.

Later I inherited an old, canary yellow Datsun, a hatchback with manual transmission. I pretended it was a sports car and though it didn’t have a lot of power, it hugged corners beautifully. That ultimately went to my sister-in-law when I got a respectable job and a two-tone Cutlass Ciera from a friend of my father’s. That Ciera got me and my clients to places in comfort and style.

There were more vehicles transferred between family, until I was able to buy the first car I actually chose for myself, my silver grey Maxima. This unassuming little car had power and speed and handled like a dream. It was a loyal work horse too, carrying easels and portfolios and some small sculptures that I sold. It even had a booster seat – which are thankfully, no longer allowed – for ferrying my daughter around when she was little. I drove it for years.

Then when my father passed away  I took to driving the white Cadillac with the burgundy leather interior that he loved, just so I could feel close to him. It drove like a boat bobbing at sea. I could see why my father loved it, in it he was the captain of his ship as he was in life.

But I wasn’t giving up my Maxima. It was still reliable and it’s body in tact. I wanted to save it  for when my daughter would get her driver’s license. It was a good plan, a family tradition carried on. I parked it in the the now vacant spot in the garage of my mother’s condo building and asked my handy man to go and put it up on blocks. I couldn’t go with him so my mother, who had no sense of direction or any interest in cars, showed him where it was parked. When he called to let me know it was done, he made an odd remark that I attributed to an off sense of humour.

“That’s a helluva nice car you’re givin’ your girl – a Rolls Royce for a teenager!”

I did believe that the little Maxima was a ‘helluva’ a car, a ‘Rolls Royce’ of first cars, so I didn’t make much more of the comment. A few days later, I went to check on it and it still had wheels on the ground. At first I was angry at the deception of this guy I trusted, but then, heading back to the elevator I noticed that the Rolls Royce belonging to a resident on the fifth floor was up on blocks!

My emotions jagged around like the ball in a pinball machine – anger, panic, relief and hilarity, in quick succession. Panic for the consequences turned quickly to relief when I remembered that the owner was often away for months at a time – he hadn’t seen his car yet. The situation was so comical that I became dizzy with laughter and my loud guffaws reverberated off the concrete walls.