Often, I think I would have been better off if I were born in another time – the Wild West, perhaps. Not just because I like shooting guns and I’m sure a corset and bustle would flatter me more than skinny jeans, but especially for the horses.

In theory, cars are wonderful carriers of people and dreams, and in them you can follow the setting sun and head to the horizon or to the next mountain in pursuit of freedom like any good cowboy. In reality, it’s a box of metal that constantly breaks down. I would do much better with a horse. I could be perfectly comfortable on a horse or in a buggy, a wagon would be a stretch but a sleigh would be nice. I could pimp-out a sleigh, get some jingle bells.

I think I would take better care of my horse than I do my car (this may be why it’s always breaking down … also it’s old.) A horse would communicate with me to feed it, to groom it, to exercise it. A car may also tell me these things, but I either don’t know the language or ignore the flashing signals. After all, that check engine light has been on for years and nothing happened until recently. I don’t trust it.

My household has four cars, two of which are currently out of commission or out of gas, while the other two alternate when to break down. All of the cars are parent gifts – since my younger siblings already have nice cars and their blue book price is minimal, I was the lucky recipient. We talk about fixing up the herd, selling them off, and investing in one good truck, more akin to Black Beauty or Silver than to Mr. Ed. It is considerate that they never all break down at once.

Last winter, Boyfriend, Dog and I lived out of town when my Subaru got lazy making the drive every day. Boyfriend put in a new starter and a new battery before she felt like getting back out there again but her fuel pump was giving her problems and she soon had to retire. Luckily, the Little Red Truck, an ’89 Dodge with a blue topper and a bench seat that I drove in high school, which my brother drove in turn and left his chew cans in, came through for me.

The Little Red Truck is more of a stubborn old mule than a quarter horse, and even though she always starts, getting in is the hardest part. Her driver’s side door won’t open from the outside anymore and climbing across the seat is always aggravating and ends with me cussing and kicking it out of gear. The tailgate must be hit gently in the right spot for it to release and this must be done with one’s knee since the other two hands are busy pulling the handle and holding up the topper.

Once you manage to get the right door open with the right key, you must remember that you cannot force her to do anything. More gas on the uphill will only send her bucking and often she’ll stop in her tracks. But we all have our quirks.

The Little Red Truck came through last winter while Boyfriend and I carpooled and picked each other up from school and bar shifts, sitting three across while hitting a top speed of 45 miles per hour. The dog, who sat in the middle for practical warmth and leg-room, loved feeling included.

Our families, who generously helped us build and repair our rag-tag herd, laughed at the constant challenges. Whenever I regaled them with stories of our car problems, like the tire that exploded and sent it’s hubcap inches from Boyfriend’s face, the reaction was usually the same.

They became nostalgic about their old car that would only start if you jiggled the key just so and was witness to many a high school shenanigan. Or my parents’ famous Honda that made the trip from Illinois like the covered wagons of yore only to be trapped in Durango, unable to make it up Farmington Hill (let alone the passes). I consider myself lucky that the Honda could literally go no farther than this little town.

After they sold the Honda, my parents bought a little Subaru that makes up one of my first memories – younger than 3 years old and stuck in a snow bank with my mom and a tow chain and a nice stranger.

Crappy cars are a rite of passage, and when they require your blood, sweat and tears, they do become a part of you. The pride of fixing a blown tire, changing a starter, or even charging my own battery endears my car to me. But I still think I’d have better luck with horses – or a shiny new truck.

– Maggie Casey