The first car I remember was a white two-door. I remember climbing in as my mother held the front seat forward so I could slip into the back. It has been said that this car caught on fire when we were in it. My Mother saw smoke, and told us to get out of the car, that it was on fire, but we just stared at her, maybe too young, probably too stupid, to realize we were in danger. The fire marked the end of the white two door. I have only vague memories of that car. It seems it was a Corvair, maybe a late sixties model, rusty and old and destined for the junk yard with a brief stop at our house before it committed suicide.

The next car in the line was the black four-door. Our neighbor owned a gas station, and he picked it out for my mother. It was an exciting day when he drove it down our street. It was a black Comet with red interior. I vividly remember the shiny ashtray set in the very middle of the back end of the front seat. I loved the black car, and I have fond memories of riding to Centerport beach in it's back seat. This was a car of the late sixties/seventies. It had seat belts, but they were lost hopelessly beneath the cracks of the back seat. Safety was of secondary concern in this car, set aside to allow for my Mother's smoking. The back seat was always a dangerous place. Hot ashes would flick off the end of my mothers cigarette, float out of the front window, then fly into the back window and occasionally blow in our faces. "Ma, your burning me again", I'd yell. "Ohh, sorry honey", she'd reply. Mind you, the cigarette was never snuffed out, the ashes were flicked a tad more carefully for the next few minutes. On one trip to the beach, me in the back and my sister in the front, I came face to face with mortality. The road to Centerport beach winded towards the northern shore of Long Island. We rolled around a fairly sharp turn, and the back door flew open. I sat stunned looming down at the pavement flying by. Not really sure what to do, completely unencumbered by a seat belt, I became hypnotized by the speeding asphalt. My sister yelled to my mother, "Ma, Mark's door is open." "Mark, get away from the door." she replied as she pulled the car to the side of the road and slammed the door shut. Somehow, I felt responsible. I spent the rest of the trip, and most others, in the middle of the back seat double and triple checking the door locks.

In around 1972 our father died. For all practical purposes this should seem like a bad thing. However, we had very little money, and my Mother was working as a cafeteria lady a the local school. Our father lived in California and never sent us a dime. His death became a bit of a windfall. My mother received a fair sum of insurance money, and as his children we were able to start collecting some of my father's social security. In an instant we went from poor to not so very poor. In our new state of fiscal fluency my Mother decided to by a car. Not a used car, not a broken down junker that tries to fling unsuspecting children out the backdoor at a whim. She wanted a brand new car. A car that would start (almost) every time. A car that had a lighter that worked, and a radio (if only AM). I don't remember the decision to purchase said car. I don't remember shopping around and haggling prices. I just remember the day she came home in it, a 1972 green Plymouth Duster. When I say green, I mean green. The entire car was green: the paint, the seats, the carpet, floor mats, radio, steering wheel, dashboard, the ceiling, door locks. It was as if the car had been steeped in a vat of green paint. It was GREEN. Only the tires and the antenna were able to avoid the green bath. It was the base model duster. It had a lighter, but these came standard back then, and it was green. I loved the duster. The burning of hot ash seemed that much sweeter sitting in the back of the duster. The working AM radio serenaded us with actual music in the back seat. The duster didn't smell like burning oil or musty mold or cigarette smoke (at least for a few weeks anyway). The duster didn't stick out like a sore rusty thumb in the supermarket parking lot. It didn't leave puddles of oil/transmission fluid in its aftermath. It didn't trail blue smoke behind it. It didn't say, "Hey, I'm filled with poor people." It said, "Hey, I'm filled with not so poor frugal people.", and somehow that seemed so much better.

The Duster ran like a dream for over ten years. I spent a fair portion of my childhood riding in the back seat of that car. When my Mother bought a new car, and gave the duster to my brother, It felt like an era had ended. I watched in sadness as my brother hacked and chopped and slowly disintegrated the Duster attempting to build himself a hot rod. I'm not sure what ever happened to it in the end, but I have a few burn scars on my forehead to remember it by.