My first car was a powder blue Volkswagen bug, made sometime in the late 1960s or early ’70s. I don’t remember the exact year. At the time my dad brought it home, it was 1987, and I was 14 years old with a driver’s learning permit I could hardly wait to start using.
Dad said he got a good deal on the VW because the woman he bought it from was eager to see the old car go. Apparently, she’d been driving it one day when a wasp flew up her skirt and stung her in the nether regions. (I can see how that kind of incident could create some bad feelings.)
But from what I could see, the car was wasp-free and still cute as a bug — literally. It was the car I learned to drive in, so I thought it was thrilling and perfect.
Looking back on