When I was little, we had one car: an early 70's Volvo station wagon in a bright, strange Turquoise color. (I believe the turquoise was on sale, and that was why my parents bought it.)
And we drove that car into the ground. It took us everywhere... trips up to Maine...Upstate NY, and out to the Cape to walk on the beach in winter. It had no tape deck. Just a radio with little buttons you could use to save a particular station. And the engine made a very specific noise so I always knew when my parents were coming back home up the hill.
I used to accompany my mom on all sorts of errands, and I remember some of her accoutrements...a battered brown leather purse...a few time-tested accessories inside; a nail file, a little pair of scissors, a Parker roller-ball pen my dad had bought for her.
I guess I've always been fascinated by the story objects tell about a person...about a family...about an upbringing. I found these few keychains to post here-- they're not the most jazzy, or the most ostentatious. But they are the things memories are made out of. The color of old, good leather, the sound of Mom's keys..the ever-absorbing detail on a little wood carving. Micky Mouse, swinging back and forth from the ignition, as you ramble on to your next new destination.
Find your own childhood car > Here