My Toyota Prius

I cheated on my Prius with an SUV at the Hertz Rental Counter on vacation last week. Yes, of course the SUV’s gas mileage wasn’t as good as my intelligent little hybrid, and filling up, my eyes flew open when the pump’s Amount Paid meter didn’t stop but kept right on ticking.

But climbing into the gleaming white Ford Escape, I couldn’t be happier. It felt good to be up riding high; with my Prius, I’m at eye level with every car passing me. And the ride over backroads in the high country was soundless and comfortable in the well-fortified truck; whereas on the highway, my Prius is a wind tunnel of sound and I feel every little pebble we run over on the road.

Still, I love my Prius. She’s my first car.

I bought her used from an elderly couple in San Diego. They were downsizing and didn’t have a need for the car so they listed it on CraigsList. I immediately sensed that the sellers weren’t so much looking for a buyer––as they were looking for the right home for their car. So I signaled my interest beyond the financial transaction: I would take care of their car.

It’s been the best six years since my Prius came into my life. As epic road warriors, we have combed over varying levels of this country: from 282 feet below sea level (Death Valley) to the 11,312-foot Monarch Pass on the Continental Divide in Colorado. Every now and then, we mail a photo of ourselves (usually outside of a National Park) to the couple who sold me the car.

One of my favorite things to do in this world––I can list it as a hobby––is to just get in my car and drive. On vast stretches of highway, I usually pat the dashboard and say: “I may not be your birth mother, but I’m your Mama now.” She knows it, and my Prius responds with a little rev in her engine.