​Growing up in Sydney in a family that did not own a motor car limits my selections, so I’ve chosen two early childhood memories and a mid-teenage incident.
 
The first involved a tray bodied truck owned and driven by dad with my elder brother Greg and myself. I’m pretty sure my younger brother was just a wrinkle on dad’s brow, as this is just in the memory box.  We were travelling along Canterbury Rd. Punchbowl – Bankstown when the brakes failed. Dad was able to crash the gears down and turn into a small side street that ended in a creek. Dad gave the order to abandon ship and Greg and I dutifully jumped out without serious injury. The truck stopped in the creek at an oblique angle and that’s the end of the memory. This was the last time ever, that dad drove a vehicle. The prospect of injuring his children and his own fright of the accident, drew simliar emotions from his war time experiences. Reflecting, with lots of unstated knowledge, I’m very sure this triggered the first of what is now called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
 
The second is a clearer memory as a four to five year old and involves a previously cited memoir of neighbour “London.” There was no back fence so London strolled up asked me if I wanted to go for a ride in his car. Mum agreed, so off we went. The vehicle was a dark coloured 1930’s something with running boards and there my knowledge based inventory of motor cars ends. I was the front seat passenger, a privileged position and enjoying the familiar scenery of Josephine St. albeit from my new elevated front seat visage.
 
As we passed Nettleton St. my door flew open and out swung “young Morro” care-free, and flapping merrily in the breeze, much to the mortification of London. The window was down courtesy of 1950’s air conditioning and I remember holding onto the door post and shouting with glee at this novel experience. The legs must have found the running board as the car slowed down and stopped, with “young Morro” safe and sound.
 
When we returned home mum recalls asking if George (aka London) was OK - as he was white as a sheet. Over the years, the incident was mentioned a few times but always with the Albion faced George taking dominance.

Well, “young Morro” is 16 in 1967 and attending the P.M.G.’s Technicians’ Training School at St. Peters Sydney.
 
One lunch break saw me in an old rusted FX Holden sedan driven and owned by Paul Dalby of Cootamundra. My fellow passengers were Theo Dentrinos of Wellington and “Lizard” from Lismore.  Returning, we were driving along a busy road and braking when in slow motion it happened. A parked tray truck had a large concrete cylinder strapped on its tray. The overhang was enormnous and visibly apparent to all of us. This truck illegally started to enter into the traffic, forcing Paul to brake and stop to avoid a collision. Well, the overhang hit and snapped an electricity pole bring the wire down on our vehicle and the truck.
 
I mentioned the slow motion aspect. As the truck hit the pole the apparent danger of the overhead wires coming down became apparent. All four of us managed to lift our feet just before the wires hit Paul’s car. We froze. The sparks and blue electric flashes lit up the scene Guy Fawkes would have been proud of. The pole fell away from us onto a number of parked and fortunately unattended vehicles.
 
The scene remained in limbo for some time, we were not getting out of the car and neither was anyone else or the nearby pedestrians. Shop owners found prudence in keeping their distance from the still arcing and moving overhead wires.
 
We eventually drove off and returned after the lunch break. Paul was able to show the supervising technician the gash blisters on the roof and bonnet of the FX, visible reasons for our tardiness. We were not docked any pay, from memory $18 a fortnight.
​
 
Graeme Morris
June 2023

​In June 1981, I was employed as a collector for the Census in the Glenrowan, Lurg area. At the time I was the proud owner of a sixties Volkswagen Beetle.  As this model had a 6-Volt battery, it often required some persuasion to start, particularly on cold frosty mornings. Fortunately, we lived out of Benalla and had a slight downward hill in our driveway. This meant I could roll start the car, often with the help of my children’s muscles.
 
June 1981 was cold and very wet.  My job involved both the delivery of the census forms to all the people in my designated area prior to Census night, and their collection after completion, so I spent a lot of time on the road.  My two daughters, aged eleven and ten at the time, were eager to help.  I gave them each a day off school to assist me in the delivery of the forms. The older one and I had an uneventful day, but the younger one experienced a day which both she and I have no trouble recalling nearly forty years later.
 
One of my neighbours, a long-time local, warned me of a dry weather road in my calling area which could be impassable in the wet. He described the road as near “So & So's” house. I took note and we set off for the day.
 
All went smoothly until, somewhere in the back blocks of Glenrowan, I called at a farmhouse to find no one at home.  I left a note then went on my way, turning into the nearby road. I had driven a few hundred yards when I noticed the road had narrowed and there was water on either side.
 
Realising there was nowhere for me to turn safely and not trusting my reversing ability, I drove on, saying to my daughter “I'll drive so you pray!” The water was continuing to rise, the road disappearing.  Eventually we came to a stop.
 
Opening my door, with water pouring in, I decided we needed to walk back to the house and hope someone had returned and could assist us. We cut across the paddocks as they were drier. Unfortunately, my daughter's gumboots had filled with water and I was unaware that she was barefoot. She ran ahead and started to climb through a fence when she screamed. There was one electrified strand and she had a burn mark across her back, which must have been painful.
 
Luckily, the farmer was at home.  He very generously ignored my stupidity, got out his tractor and pulled us through to the other side, before ensuring the car was able to start again. It appears that his house had been “So & So's” house many years ago but, two owners later, was still known as such.
 
We gratefully set out for home. The car behaved beautifully.   The journey home was silent, apart from the water still inside the car splashing about!  I was busy offering prayers of thanks, while my daughter was just happy to be on her way home.
 
Strange to say, none of my children offered to assist at future Census times, even though they would have scored a day off school!
 
 
Marg McCrohan
July 2020

​During the 80s I lived at Thoona with my four young sons, and as I didn’t have a car a son of a friend gave me his on loan. It was an HD Holden and I called it Harriet. 
     Harriet served us well until a house became vacant in town.  I returned her to her owner and invested in a sturdy used car on which my youngest son bestowed the name Stanley. This time it was a Ford XR Falcon with one original owner and so was well looked after.  It was part of the family for a few years  One day after I’d finished my shopping at SSW (now Coles) I left Stanley in the supermarket car park on the butcher’s side and nicked up the street for an item or two. When I returned I was surprised to see a crowd had gathered. My son, who worked at SSW at the time, approached me.  He told me that my car had been damaged along with three others. Apparently a gentleman in his nineties pulling out of a bay had hit the accelerator instead of the brake, ploughing through three vehicles. One was brand new!  ‘But, mum,’ my son said proudly, 'Stanley stopped him hitting any more. He came to a sudden stop once he hit solid old Stanley.’
     There was damage to the side, but fortunately I was able to drive home (it was a different story for the other three drivers). So, after a bit of panel beating and a paint touch up, Stanley was back on the road looking better than before.
 
     Now, my two eldest sons were real car enthusiasts and members of the Chrysler Club, and they spotted a car in their travels that they thought would be great for me. They arranged the sale of our dear old Stanley and I became the owner of a CL Chrysler. Wow! What comfort! It was like driving in my lounge chair, tape deck, a heater that really worked and cloth seats instead of the usual cold vinyl. I didn’t give this one a name, but I think it should’ve been called ‘The Guzzler’ because it had a mighty thirst for petrol.
     Eventually I decided to look around for a smaller, more economic car and on one of my trips to Chiltern to see my mum, dropped in on my two bachelor uncles. They were discussing my Chrysler.  Dave, the younger, was really impressed.  When I mentioned I was looking to swap it for a smaller car that wasn’t so heavy on the juice, he offered to buy it. I agreed that as soon as I found a replacement he could have it.
 
      Not long after that visit I received a call from Uncle Paddy, the older, with instructions to meet him at the Benalla train station. As he was a man of few words I was given no reason. He’d booked into the Top of the Town motel with instructions to pick him up next day. This I did and he told me to take him to the Ford dealer, where he told me to wait in the car, as he was going to get me a car. Ignoring my protestations, he walked to the office  and after some time he was back in the car ordering me to drive him to the bank.
      This time I was in the position to voice loudly my protests. He just grinned and said he had plenty of money and he was "buying me a little bastard".
      I accompanied him to the office, dumbfounded, as papers were signed, cheque passed over and told there would be a brand new red Ford Festiva arriving within two weeks.
 
    To cut this story short, I had Marty Burke print up‘The Little Bastard’ and place it on the tailgate, then took myself off to Chiltern to take uncle Paddy for a drive as promised. He was immensely amused with the name, I might add.
    That little car took me round the Great Ocean Road, having its first service in Warrnambool, and survived the floods in Benalla two months later.
     Unfortunately dear uncle Paddy (full name Ernest Edward Patrick Coyle) passed away a few months later at age 81. But 'the little B' remained in the family for 16 years before joining a pizza business in Melbourne.  Maybe it's still there, busy delivering pizzas. 
 
Betty Milligan
July 2020

When I was a child living in Melbourne in the mid forties, our family car was a log truck, an International K8.  If we went to the pictures or to church on Sundays, we would take the truck. Parking for a large truck complete with timber jinker didn’t seem to be a problem in those days.

Father only came home at weekends when I would examine the truck for damage. On one occasion the back of the cabin was stove in from the load shifting. Frequently the wooden pole of the jinker was smashed.

A day trip to the forest with him is the ultimate. Dad hauls logs with the bulldozer. At the landing stage the steel wire cables strain to haul the giants up the timber struts. When the log finally rolls into place on the timber jinker, a cloud of dust rises as the truck settles down under the suddenly added weight.

I perch excitedly on the edge of the seat, so that I can see through the windscreen, as we head down the mountain to deliver the logs to the mill. Father winds the truck slowly around the sharp bends of the narrow dirt mountain road; steering with one hand as he eats his lunch sandwiches with the other.  He points out wreckage of trucks that have failed to negotiate the sharp hairpin bends of the road and have plunged down through the tree tops to the valley floor below. “That one there had its brakes fail. This one had the load shift before it went over the edge!” We travel steadily; one false move could push us over the edge as well.

New cars could only be purchased when a permit was issued for special cases. We got an early permit for a new Oldsmobile and ‘the Olds’ came into our lives. “Children, we are going on a drive to the hills,” would often summon us on Sunday afternoons. On our first trip driving through the Dandenong Ranges Dad thought he detected a rattle. Windows were wound down and we all listened. “There it is!” He stopped. It was a bellbird!

After a move to the country the Olds was a large presence in our lives for many years.

I learnt to drive in the Olds. Dad said “It’s time you learnt to drive but I can’t stand to watch. I’m walking with the sheep to Summerlands and you can drive down to fetch me.” I had no idea how to drive. I started it in top gear, muffed the gears and went down a hill in angel gear while I read the manual on how to change gear. The Olds, stately old girl that she was, handled it well.

Reluctantly it was traded in. I saw it years later. There were big holes in the spotless upholstery and rusted holes in the mudguards, but it was still as black and shiny as ever.  Dad had always said, “This, is a motor car.” Someone else loved it too.
​
 
Bev Morton

My husband, Sean and I arrived in Australia in 1965. Sean bought a car which he used to travel to work. How he bought that car is another story. I had no car. I got my driver’s license in Ireland when I was 18 but I could not afford to buy a car. I longed for a car of my own and at the time of this story, I could afford to buy one. Not a brand-new car, but a good used one.
 
One day I was walking past a car yard when I noticed a little beauty.  It was just what I wanted.  I went and had a good look at it. It was a Skoda. I knew some vehicle makes such as Ford, Hillman and Vauxhall and that was the limit of my knowledge. To me a car was a car. I had never heard of Skoda, but I liked the name of this car ‘Skoda Felicia’. I loved its low profile and sleekness, a bit like a sports car and, best of all, it was a mid-blue, my favourite colour.
 
I do not remember how much it cost, but it must have been in my price range. I bought it straight away, no test drive or mechanical inspection. I paid for it and drove it home. I was so proud of it and was delighted at having discovered such a nice car.
 
The next day I planned to go shopping in my car. It would not start. I kept trying and trying but it was as dead as a doornail. When Sean came home from work that evening, I asked him to check it out and tell me what was wrong with it. He sat in, turned the key and it fired up immediately. There was no problem. He said I must have been doing something wrong.
 
It wouldn’t start for me again the next day. When Sean tried to start it there was not a kick out of it. This proved to be an on-going issue. Sometimes it would start and other times it was impossible to start. We took it to an auto electrician, but they couldn’t find anything wrong with it. It was just temperamental. My lovely car was unreliable. I would have to buy another car.
 
One day Sean saw a ‘reliable’ car in a sales yard. He talked with the salesman, and they negotiated a deal. My Skoda was traded in for the ‘reliable’ car.  I was sad losing my dream car, but I liked the idea of having a car I could depend on to start.  I was looking forward to seeing my new reliable car. That was until my husband arrived home with a big clumsy beige Austin A 40.  I considered it a monstrosity.
 
The Austin A 40 remained my car for several years and it never let me down.  I never fell in love with it and mourned my lovely blue Skoda. I have never felt attached to a car since. People dream of owning Jaguars, Mercedes, Jeeps, or Landovers.  If I can’t have my Skoda, any reliable car will do.
 
 
Elizabeth Kearns.
 
As Time Goes By - July 2020

​In the late 1950s I purchased a black Morris Minor 1000 sedan.
 
As a single person it suited my requirements excellently.  However, as it was a small 4-seater vehicle, there wasn’t a lot of room to cater for bulky golf sticks.  Nevertheless, my brother and I managed and went regularly to Elsternwick and Yarra Bend golf courses.  However, its main use was for domestic and personal purposes.
 
In November 1962 I invited some friends from Wodonga to visit me in Prahran for the purpose of attending the Melbourne Cup.  I drove out to the Flemington racecourse and my friends and I had a very enjoyable day.
 
In the evening, after the races were over, we adjourned to the Federal Hotel in the city where my friends had booked accommodation.  The Federal was well known to country people and had a good reputation for meals and entertainment.  At the entertainment, two of my friends befriended a couple of nurses and I loaned them my car to take the nurses home to their hospital.
 
The entertainment concluded and one friend and I waited n their room until the boys returned.  I don’t remember how long we waited, but it was some reasonable time.  On their eventual return I set off to drive home to Prahran.  As I worked in the city, I knew the road well and often travelled by car to work, which was nearby.  As was usual I drove down Spencer Street and Clarendon Street, South Melbourne.  For whatever reason I missed a veer in the road and collided with an electricity pole.  This caused considerable damage to the car and I didn’t fare too well either.
 
I woke up in the Prince Henry Hospital with nurses flitting around everywhere.  I had sustained a fractured skull, a punctured lung, a fractured sternum, 12 fractured ribs and brain damage.  It was a serious situation.  I stayed in the hospital for about 10 days.  My brother Basil visited me daily.  Eventually I returned home and did not go back to work for about 2 months.  My main concern was my frequent brain “slides”.  I don’t know how else to describe them.  I was placed on “dilantin” medication for “the rest of your life”.
 
During my rehabilitation I lost my sense of taste and my sense of smell went haywire.  I could not bear to be in the kitchen while a meal was cooking.  Eventually I returned to work and life carried on normally.  Some 6 or 8 months later was transferred from my auditing position at work back to administration in the Benalla office.
 
The car!  What happened to the car?  I visited a wrecker’s yard and there it was, sitting neglected with a massive crunch dead centre in the bonnet.  I noted that the internal rear vision mirror was shattered.  It had penetrated my forehead.  The car was a write-off.
 
Footnote:  The medication “for the rest of your life” was terminated in May 1988.
 
Ray O’Shannessy
July 2020

​A few months ago, a letter arrived in the mail which stunned me.   ‘Airbag recall – you must stop driving your car immediately’.  My white 1999 Honda CRV, PTO 376, 325,000 on the mileage meter, was sitting in the driveway as I read the letter.  My heart skipped a beat, my stomach sank.   Oh no! Supported by my mechanic David at the local Liberty Garage, I was hoping to drive it until it dropped.   I loved it! Only recently David had advised me to keep it and not buy on my sister’s Hyundai i135 as he thought it would last longer.  But now it seemed, the decision was being taken out of my hands.

I’d heaved a sigh of relief when I realised my 1999 model wasn’t included in an earlier round of recalls.  But now it seemed airbags in tmy older model had an unacceptable risk of deadly shrapnel being released from the airbag in an accident. Recall notices had been sent out by Honda.   This time there wasn’t the option of having airbags refitted – parts were unavailable for older models. A buy back offer was on the table - $2900 plus $400 for costs associated in making the transition. 

I was conflicted, it was a wonderful offer.  I didn’t want to let go of my car, but at the same time, would be lucky to get $500 for it if I sold it.  And, realistically, I needed a car that would be more likely to see me out, a ‘last car’, ideally another Honda CRV, but 10 years younger with lower mileage. 

You see I love Honda’s – this had been my third.  My previous favourite was a teal blue Honda Civic Station Wagon I drove during the 1980's and 1990’s, a model based on the original little Honda runabouts but with an extended chassis.  I would still be driving this car if I could!  A few cars later, another very reliable Honda, this time a dark blue Honda Accord sedan with gold special edition badging bought from Pat Claridge's car yard.  In an urgent quest for a replacement vehicle after an accident in which it had been written off, I found the white CRV at Laurie Lowen’s car yard.  What a find!  Reliable, comfortable to get into as knee and back problems kicked in, so easy to see out of and enjoy broad rural landscapes sitting quite high relative to the road. Although more recently items listing knocks in the engine appeared on service reports, they didn’t seem to be getting any worse and David didn’t appear worried.   I didn’t want to let go of it, but had little choice. 

The search began – for another Honda!  I unsuccessfully looked through car yards in Shepparton.  Encouraged by a friend to look on Gumtree, I found a silver-grey Honda CRV within my price range being sold in nearby Baddaginnie.  Taking my sister with me, I inspected it.  The owner and her sons showed it to me proudly, highlighting its ‘special edition’ features; proclaiming that it was serviced by a Benalla mechanic who did not think she should sell it, and more. The owner explained that she had driven it from Queensland to Baddaginnie, where, now living with her sons and rarely driving it, the money would help with extensions to their house.  My instincts were that it was going to be okay.  It would also meet my criterion of being 10 years younger -2009 - and having lower mileage - 148,000k.  The price was also in range with the payout from Honda of $3300 factored in.  Sold!

That’s not quite the end of the story, however.  A few weeks went by before arrangements were in place for the tow truck to arrive to take my treasured white CRV on its final journey to the Honda graveyard in Melbourne.  I drove it while I could still do so, each time enjoying the drive; each time wishing that I didn’t have to sell it.  I reluctantly emptied it.  The day came when the tow truck pulled up outside and I watched it being levered up the ramp and placed securely on the tray of the truck.  I felt so sad.

​I don’t think I ‘anthropomorphized’ PTO 376 - I didn’t have a name for it or talk to it - however I valued it highly.  It had shared a decade of my life, been on so many adventures with me.  It had carried boxes of teaching resources from Wangaratta, as I made the transition from working at GOTAFE to retirement; taken my mother on many happy drives when she was living at Alkoomi nursing home in the years before her death in September 2014; driven me to Albury/Wodonga for treatments when I had breast cancer in 2013; taken me ‘north’ to meet my half-sisters and nieces for the very first time in 2014; just last year taken me back to Sydney to see my 102 year old godmother, and so much more. 

In fact, it had rarely skipped a beat in ten years.  Yet now, to reduce the risk that a piece of shrapnel would enter my body if I had an accident which could lead to my suing Honda for millions of dollars, it was on the back of a truck, heading for a crusher and car graveyard in Melbourne.

The silver-grey Honda CRV special edition 2009 now sits resplendently in my driveway.  It’s more glamorous than its predecessor (to those who care about such things) and is performing very well, despite limited opportunities to drive it far during the COVID-19 break. 

I am gradually learning to trust it, to understand its features and quirks, yet still feel quite sad when I think of my old white Honda CRV sitting valiantly on the back of the tow truck as it pulled out of Monds Avenue on the journey to its Melbourne graveyard.

It just isn’t the same.  However, one day, given my track record for becoming attached to my cars, I am sure it will be…
 
Bev Lee
July 2020