Maybe it was the Plymouth, stalling at intersections even when you had one foot on the brake and one on the gas. Maybe that's why I never developed a love for cars. Some families bond with them. "The old Ford," they say, with pride and affection. Ours was not that kind of family.

"Load up," my dad would say, and we'd pile into the car. It was never "the Olds" or "the Road Rocket" or "the old girl." It was the car, given no more thought or affection than "the broom" or anything else that was used until it wore out. And our cars -- usually station wagons to hold a family of seven kids -- wore out often.

Especially when we all started driving and our dad had to scrounge up some extras. The cars he got "¦ well, for instance, that green Plymouth. It was pretty good as long as you pressed on the accelerator; but stop at a red light and then head into the intersection and, no matter how much gas you gave it, it stalled. Right there in the middle of the street. And then there was a frantic slamming of the gearshift into park, and a desperate twisting of the key in the ignition, and a frightened glance at the green light turning yellow and the cars on either side of the intersection chomping at the bit waiting for the all-clear. And the only thing in their way was you.

None of us got too sentimental about that car.

Nor the red Volkswagen station wagon. Something was wrong with the ignition, so our dad rigged up a temporary fix: two wires dangling out of the dashboard that you had to touch together. I guess we were hot wiring our own car. And for some reason the front seat was missing, so we had to sit on a bench. Temporary inconveniences, but not the sort that endear you to a vehicle.

And was that the same car that fogged up on the inside of the window? I believe it was. I can remember reaching past the steering wheel to scrape ice off the window. The engine worked like a charm, but none of us felt particularly close to that baby.

I can understand cowboys bonding with their horses: Ol' Paint, he carried me through the desert when I was too weak to hold my own head up. Now, that's a beast I could bond with. The ol' Plymouth? She'd carry me through the desert, all right, until she noticed she wasn't getting enough fuel. Then she'd cough and stop and stand dead still on the desert sand and swish her tail while the buzzards closed in on us.

You can get all sappy about some cars, but you just can't get too choked up about the clunkers.

-- Cindy O. Herman lives in Snyder County. Send e-mail comments to her at Cindyherman1@yahoo.com.