I had a mechanic back in the day, just one guy in a shop. I liked him and trusted him to make decisions with our best interests in mind, saving me money and making sure I was safe in my 2 ton potential death machine.

Rick was also interesting to chat with about all kinds of things, not just cars, but he sure loved cars. He took care of ours from cradle to grave. He played matchmaker in re-selling a few. I’d ask his opinion about choosing a new car, and he had strong opinions. I was excited about the new VW bug. “Chick magnet.” The new PT Cruiser? “Chuck magnet.” The most ecological choices on the market, like the Prius that had just come out? He scoffed. The most ecological thing to do is keep your old car. Making a new one is hard on the planet.

We’ve kept all our new cars for at least ten years. In 1982 I regretfully traded my beloved 1973 “burnt orange” VW super beetle, my first car, that my dad “sold” to me, for a used Dodge van so we could travel around the country. It developed a bad habit of dumping water from its radiator whenever we turned off the engine, so that we could only stop near a water source. After it finally melted down, Alan’s parents gave us their blue Ford Torino which needed frequent oil feedings. But in the only accident of my life, on a steaming August day in 1984, six months pregnant and sleep deprived, I t-boned a truck. With the front end smashed in, the hood permanently shut, it too starved to death. That’s when we began buying new.

When we moved to Portland in 2014 we had two cars that ran great. But then two unexpected challenges came up. First, the 2-wheel drive and low clearance meant neither could handle much snow. Second, our new house sat on a fairly steep hill; when the snow stuck, we were stuck. Some winters it lasts several days, even a week. We stay well stocked and read by the fire, so mostly it’s fine.

In the December 2016 snowmageddon we had to abandon our car on the side of the highway. It wasn’t the car’s fault, no one else was getting out either; cars were scattered along every road and highway. Still, I was left with a mild case of PTSD, and every fall I get anxious – what if there was an emergency? I wanted a reliable vehicle for our dramatic Pacific Northwest climate.

Everyone in Portland seems to have a Subaru. The place is lousy with Forresters, Outbacks, and Crosstreks, many of them ancient but still on the road. It seemed to be a requirement of citizenship. We kept our eye on them – good for grandkid trips, for camping, for rugged adventure, for long road trips crammed full of gear and musical instruments, all part of our retirement plan.

But it wasn’t just snow-worthiness that was important. As hybrids and electrics became more available and affordable, that was our future. Also, this could be the last car we ever buy; it had to last! But our perfect car wasn’t out there yet, so we put off the decision, and put aside money.

Then Toyota introduced the RAV4 Prime, an AWD plug-in electric hybrid (PHEV) with far better mileage than our cars. But then the pandemic hit, and the supply chain issues still remain. With gas prices high, everyone wants one and they’re impossible to get. People pay higher prices, and dealership negotiations are unheard of. Some people even pay extra to get one right off the ship before it’s whisked away. Dealerships added a fee just for the honor of buying the car, coincidentally the amount of the electric vehicle rebate. No thanks.

Then Hyundai brought out the PHEV Tucson and we added that to our searches. Like the eye of Sauron, we scanned the Portland metro area for availability. We got on waiting lists, called sales people, and searched the web. But when a dealership announced delivery of a few cars, they were bought up by the time we got to the phone.

Then it happened. Four Tucsons! on the lot! in four colors! We had to debate it all over again. Cost vs. size vs. battery range vs. rebates. But finally, it came down to the fact that there were FOUR ON THE LOT! NOW! The snow from a few weeks ago lingered in the back of my mind. It was go time. Our plans for the day went out the window. (Retirement note: you can turn on a dime when necessary.)

Several hours later it was done. From the broad smiles and handshakes, we perhaps funded the entire sales team with college educations for their kids. But we were satisfied enough. It was in our budget. Back in Psych 101 I learned about cognitive dissonance, and I try not to look back on decisions that can’t be undone. Mission accomplished: 1) We can stop thinking about it. 2) MPG peace of mind. 3) Snow is in the forecast; not a concern.

Now I’m figuring out this farkakte mystery car. The learning curve is steep. My first touch screen, first hybrid, first electric. I’m learning a new language with unwieldy vocabulary and acronyms. I discovered the most important thing first: how to light up those seat warmers.

How different I am from those VW years so long ago. I’m not jumping in and out of the car with ease, zipping around corners, not as reckless, and certainly not changing my own oil. This car is complicated, staid, safe, and cushy; a different animal entirely.

The first day while nervously driving slowly in the right lane, checking my mirrors four and five times, and trying not to be distracted by the mysterious lights and dials, I worried aloud to my son, “I feel like I’m becoming an old lady driver.” He looked at me and said, “You will never be an old lady driver. It’s not in your makeup to be an old lady driver.” I laughed, and gracefully zipper-merged into the fast lane. But I didn’t floor it; I drive a hybrid now.

I’m looking forward to packing the car for a trip, not having to tetris the gear in, and not having to apologize for what I say to Alan while we pack the car. But it’s possible that our rugged adventurous days are over, and this ultra comfortable ride is just what we need now. As Greg Brown sings, “I like a bed and a blanket, some light breakfast, sometime tomorrow.” I’ve grown attached to comforts, glad for a car that, even though making it was hard on the earth, will now let me step more lightly.

The car automatically connects to my phone, and it found my current playlist, David Crosby’s album If I Could Only Remember My Name. This car knows what I want. I missed this album when it came out in the early 70s, and am enjoying catching up. I found the repeat button and played “Laughing” over and over as I drove, thinking about how Crosby wrote it for George Harrison, about taking the Maharishi with a grain of salt, words he didn’t dare say to George’s face.

I realized as we drove off the car lot that I never looked back on the old car that we traded away. My mind was on the new one, and I’m not sentimental about cars; never named them, and rarely decorated them. But then I thought about how that car brought me to Oregon eight years ago, and how well it served me this past decade. If I have any car nostalgia, it’s for that ’73 VW bug. Not the creaky rattletrap bone jangling tin can feel, but missing that VW girl, long brown hair blowing in the wind, elbow out the open window, music blasting, letting my freak flag fly.