Cars can be much more than a vehicle for transportation. For some people, their car is their prized possession. Paint may peel on the garage, but they will jump to polish dirt off the chrome wheels before it has time to hide the shine.

Love for cars can lead some to near infatuation. They visit museums, go to classic car shows, and even collect some favorite models for "conversation pieces" and tinkering.

Still another group may view the car almost as a member of the family, often giving it a name. They remember the good and bad times they have experienced together, and are really reluctant to trade it away in its later years. A popular book titled "Life with Hezzie" by George Grise (who has Logan County connections) told such a story in the mid-twentieth century.

In my earliest years, we had a car. It was a used 1929 Model A Ford coupe. The registration transfer certificates from January 27, 1932, were kept in the cedar chest and are now in one of my scrapbooks.

They are signed by Emerson Beauchamp, Clerk of Logan County Court. I had come into the world, at home, only two months before. Two important additions to the family in a short span of time! Only around age five did my memories of what had happened in the past begin to stick with me, but we have a Kodak snapshot of me standing by the car, as proof.

I remember riding to Schley for a picnic by the river. We had sandwiches of fresh sliced tomatoes on homemade yeast bread; probably fried chicken, too. I remember our driving home from Pleasant Grove Church after dark, and my mother holding the flashlight out the window so my father could see the tracks in the road because the lights rarely worked. I remember pulling the heavy lap robe around our feet and legs on the way to Grandma's house for Christmas dinner because there was no heater.

Time moved on, but the car didn't move much. Every time we wanted to go somewhere, it wouldn't crank, or the tires were flat and we didn't have the right size patches for the inner tubes, or the radiator required a big dose of cornmeal to stop it from leaking. So, it sat under a maple tree in the front yard. Perhaps my favorite memories are playing inside the stationary car with my Shirley Temple doll and pretending we were on a trip to Hollywood.

World War II came, and vital resources went for the cause, not to build affordable cars for the rural folks.

More time passed, and a fine farm boy came courting in a black Mercury, the envy of all who had not worked as hard to save their money as he had. His car carried us to slightly beyond our wedding day, but it had to be swapped off for a pickup truck, for practical purposes.

All the cars that followed have been sincerely appreciated by me, but I must honestly admit that the usefulness of each has far outweighed looks in winning my heart.