By Steve Walsh

My first vehicle was a 1989 Ford Festiva, a clown car that Ford came up with to entice the as yet untapped circus demographic, I’m sure.

The car was so small I could reach out the window and open the hood while remaining behind the wheel. If it had duel exhaust pipes, I could have used it as a wheel barrow.

It was dark grey with an orange pin stripe, and even though the pin striped said “chick magnet,” I decided to add a “Steal Your Face” sticker on the back window to seal the deal. (You’re welcome, Grateful Dead, for the additional publicity. Hope it helped.)

I remember the car would regularly stall out if I drove through puddles. Or over a damp sponge. Sea-worthy it was not. Before I got rid of it, I remember hearing a sloshing sound in the back seat every time it rained. Came to find out there was a hole in the baseboard and the floor behind the driver’s seat would fill with water in bad weather. And with water in the back seat comes mold. I could always count on the car smelling like bad cheese every time the clouds rolled in.

When I bought the car, I brought it over to my girlfriend Kendra’s house to show it off. She gasped and said, “I’m going to look so cute in this car.”

In the end, my relationship with the Festiva lasted longer than the one with Kendra. The Festiva was a good car. All these years later, I’ve “friended” Kendra on Facebook. If I could find my Festiva, I’d “friend” it, too.

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