C. Nemeth

I estimate that in my lifetime I have driven somewhere between five and six million miles. But no more.

So, it was with nostalgia when I stepped out into the garage the other day and beheld our family KIA, sitting there in its black glossy glory. I ran my hand along the shiny metal, around the rear and forward up the left side. I opened the driver’s door and sat. Sitting there looking out over the steering wheel I began to reminisce about the days when an auto seemed liked an extension of my body.

I then remembered how, as a little boy, I would open the door on the Model A Ford and crawl up into the seat behind the steering wheel. Sitting there moving the steering wheel back and forth and pushing the gear shift lever, mimicking my Dad’s driving. The fantasies of my trips were heroic, and I would sit there making engine noises. The world was my oyster.

As I sat in the KIA, I didn’t move the steering wheel or the shift selector. Memories formed of trips in good weather and bad. I have driven coast to coast twice, driven autos in all but a handful of states. I dealt with flats beside the road, fan belts, thermostats, dragging mufflers, overheating, out of fuel. These things came flooding back. I must have sat there for some time before reality pushed the past back into its niche in my mind. I sighed, got out, closed the door. My reverie was over. Maybe again some time.

Memories are to be enjoyed, sometimes even the bad ones. They illustrate a catalog of your life. Enjoy them. They are priceless, each a one-of-a-kind history of a life, your life.