I've been singing a sad song about car ownership ever since I left my brother's car on the Hawthorne St. Bridge in Portland in 1939. While it was only an empty gas tank then, I've had numerous occasions to sing the blues.

It may have been an omen when my brother gave me that very car the day he went into the Navy. It was a gorgeous '29 Model A Ford. I drove it for three years, taking numerous trips to Portland to visit my folks during the war. As a Boeing electrician I could wire a B-17 but I did not understand simple windshield wipers.

There was driving rain on Highway 99 that holiday Sunday. I promised the folks I'd come down for Mother's Day. The wipers simply stopped mid-wipe, forcing me to reach out the driver's side window and move them manually all the way to Portland. The rain never ceased. My arm hung limp at my side for the whole day.

While it was a classic I felt the car was falling apart when I noticed a loose door handle. I sold the car that week to a co-worker in the sheet metal division. I never fancied myself as a mechanic but he WAS. In a few hours he had the wipers fixed and the door handled tightened. The car ran like a top and I was left holding $125 cash and the chance to buy a ‘28 Desoto coupe with a rumble seat. It did NOT run like a top

It did not stop there. I took my wife and kid and two friends out to Martha Lake. Heading down a long hill I hit a big rut in the road. Moments later the two front wooden-spoke wheels left the vehicle rolling down hill in front of us. We skidded on the front suspension down between two utility poles and into a big clump of brush left by road workers. The wheels continued on down the hill. No one was injured, not even a scratch. We were lucky. The car--not so much.

My brother Russ heard about my troubles. He drove up from Oakland, to help. He asked me to ride back down with him where he promptly gave me (for the second time) a 1937 Studebaker Champion. I gladly accepted (I needed a car). I hopped in for the drive back to Seattle.

I reached Portland with the car smoking and choking. A mechanic there told me a piston was cracked and had to be removed. The car could run on five cylinders but would create a lot of sooty smoke I had to breathe. Plenty came out the tail pipe too. I apologized constantly on the way home to all the drivers behind me while I motored at only 25 mph but I made it to Seattle.

The car was a mess. I had it fixed but did not keep it. Two cars later I bought a '51 Chrysler automatic with "fluid drive." It became my growing family's trip car and it would have held the distinction of my best car had it not been for the trailer hitch incident outside Disneyland in 1955.

Somehow the hitch came loose sending my borrowed trailer/camper into a ditch next to an orange grove. The family was okay but I had to shell out some extra bucks to my neighbor for the scuffed up side panels.

Not long after that I needed a delivery truck for the papers. My shop foreman suggested I buy his son's truck, as he was trustworthy. The kid brought the truck to the office while I was on the phone. He waited patiently to give me a demo. I took a bit too long so he disappeared. A few minutes later he was back but I was on another call. He disappeared again. This went on for 40 minutes. I finally freed myself up to check out the truck. It looked fine. I told him I did not need to drive it, as I trusted him. He looked like a nice kid. I gave him cash. I came out later to move the truck only to discover four flat tires. The darn kid had been running back a forth to the service station trying to keep the tires inflated while I was on the phone.

That was only an annoyance. The truck needed new tires anyway.

If it weren’t for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. I was parked in Burien on 152nd street near the old Seattle Trust & Savings (now Key Bank). I was about to get out of my brand new 1962 Studebaker. I neglected to check my side view mirror. I popped open the driver's side door where it was instantly smashed into several layers of metal and fabric. A regular accordion job. I wasn't hurt but the repair was music to the dealer's ears.