My fiance heading for work in his nice car.

Banjo Man owned a beautiful Pontiac Le Mans when we began dating.  Little did I know it would be the last new car we would own for the next thirty years.

My first experience with one of Banjo Man’s used cars, a used Jeep Wagoneer, came when it stopped dead at the biggest stoplight in town.  Cars honked and people yelled, until I hauled my seven-months-pregnant body from behind the steering wheel and threw myself at the mercy of the gas station attendants across the street.

It was to be the first of many, many Used Car Nightmares.

Since there were few years we could afford car payments or the extra money for car insurance with teenagers on the policy, we lurched from one cheap used car purchase to another.  Once in a while we’d get lucky and buy something that would actually be a good deal, but most of the time the phrase “you get what you pay for” rang painfully true.  I never cared what I drove, as long as it would hold all of the kids and gave the impression that it would actually last for a while.

I have lots of used car stories.  Be glad I’m not sharing them right now.

Oops…except for this one:  when we lived out west, we’d had back-to-back successes with two used Datsuns and one bulldozer.  Banjo Man was justifiably proud of his bargains.  When one of his co-workers talked about he and his wife shopping for a new car, my helpful husband convinced him that it made better financial sense to find something used.  The guy answered a classified ad in the Spokane paper and was robbed of six-thousand dollars before he and his very pregnant wife were handcuffed together around a toilet in an abandoned house.

In 2000, with an empty nest and the bulk of college expenses behind us, we mended our ways.  I bought my dream car, a Toyota Tacoma truck.  A nervous Banjo Man shopped ’til he dropped all year before buying a Mazda Millennia sedan complete with cash rebates and dealer discounts one week before Christmas.

Life became…calm.  Engines revved, batteries stayed alive, and there were no ominous clanking or knocking sounds from underneath the hoods or the tailpipes.

Eleven peaceful-car years later, my Toyota was recalled due to bad steel.  I was given a healthy sum for my rusted-out truck and despite my tears (I loved that truck) no one felt sorry for me.  Not even Banjo Man.

He roamed around the Toyota showroom, grimaced at the stickers and began to talk about buying “something used”.

I threw up a little in my mouth.

(to be continued tomorrow)