How many times have you seen a classic car go by and remember when you had one just like it? I actually get a little pang in my heart when that happens. When I was growing up, my dad was a great mechanic, and his best friend was a used car dealer. Together they would hit the auctions, and my dad would come home with a different used car every few months. Usually he’d fix it up and sell it for profit, but every once in a while he’d keep it for himself or for my mom. When I got my license and started asking for a car of my own, he brought home a cute little silver number. I knew nothing about cars, only that I wanted one that looked “cool,” and this one filled the bill. It was small, not like the huge 4-door family cars I had been driven around in all my life. I zipped around in it like nobody’s business. But like many inexperienced drivers, I drove a bit too recklessly, and I paid the price one winter night when I hit a patch of ice, slammed on the brakes, and went into a spin. I wrecked the car. When I called my dad, he of course wanted to know if I was OK (I was), and he arrived on the scene just in time to tell the tow truck driver where to take the wreckage. I never saw it again. I knew he was disappointed in me, but it was nothing compared to the disappointment I had in myself–especially when I realized years later that my very first car had been a Mustang Fastback. Since then, I’ve owned many cars–too many to count. They’ve come and gone for different reasons, but I’ve never pined for any of them like I do for that Mustang! What I wouldn’t give to drive it one more time.