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My mother has always been a notoriously bad driver. She didn't learn until she was in her early 20s, being "too nervous" to do so before; my aunt tells me that when she got her first car, a Volkswagen Beetle, she managed to break the stick shift off at the gearbox. Twice.

One of my most vivid memories of living in San Diego when I was a kid is sitting in the back seat of my mom's kelly green Datsun -- you just can't get cars in that color today -- as she stuck her head as far as it would go out of the driver's side window, twisting her body as she peered behind her while backing down the driveway. Inevitably, as soon as we reached the bottom of the driveway, there would be a metallic crunch followed by a series of ringing clangs. "Oh, hell!" my mom would snap crossly at nobody in particular, as she put the car in park and stepped out to retrieve the three misshapen and dented trash cans that she'd sent sprawling into the road. The trash cans, you see, were kept on the passenger side of the curb.

I was at home for most of the day yesterday because of a dentist's appointment, which means that I got to watch the trash and recycling trucks come by. (This is actually thrilling even when you are no longer 4 years old, because the new recycling trucks are outfitted with a gigantic claw that picks up the carts and swings their contents into the truck. Gigantic claw! You'd be charmed, too.) Later on, I drove downtown to have dinner with some friends, one of whom was visiting from out of state. Given how close the houses are in our neighborhood, the driveway that we share with the neighbors -- like I said, they're close -- is barely large enough to admit the Town Car. Unlike my mother, however, I am not a nervous driver, and can pilot the car back down the short, narrow drive with aplomb, using my side view mirror as my only guide. And, because I'm not looking directly behind me, plow straight into the neighbor's trash can, hidden by the dusk and lying on its side squarely at the bottom of the driveway.

For me, unlike my mother, the close encounter with the trash can was not an immense source of stress -- since our trash cans are plastic and not metal, the rear bumper of the car squashed it with a deep and throaty thud, punching some new dents in the bottom. And, once I drove the car forward off it, the top is now a pointy egg-shaped oval, instead of round. But I've got a lot of trash cans to destroy, and stick shifts to rip off, before I can live up to maternal precedent.

The best part about all of this is that when I talked to my mom today she confirmed that she did indeed run into the trash cans nearly every day. I was expecting it to be one of those occasional incidents that my tiny mind expanded into something that always happened, but nope.

And thinking about it some more -- with such stress and fear associated with cars in my family, is it any wonder that I'd really rather walk, bike, or take the bus?

Your story reminded me of my dad's Datsun - a '79 diarrhea brown two door one. I have no idea how it survived years with my Great Uncle as its driver given how bad it was, but am also thankful that colour is gone (and hopefully never coming back).