When my dad got a Mazda Protégé in the late 1990s, my mom talked him into keeping the beat-up old thing he'd been driving for almost a decade. Though still years away, she knew that -- like all teenagers -- I was going to want my driver’s license soon. And then I’d need something to drive.

And that’s how Dad’s 1990 Toyota Corolla, affectionately nicknamed “The Red Bomb,” came to be inherited by a seriously excited 15-year-old girl. No matter that it was old, dusty and rusted in several places, or that the paint job needed a major overhaul. I didn’t even care that the radio was spotty at best and the tape deck no longer worked. When I got my learner's permit in 2001, the Bomb and I were free.

The morning Dad and I went out on my very first driving lesson -- you know, to the end of our street in Maryland and back -- I sat in the driver's seat and ran slick palms over the steering wheel. Ever the artiste, I'd gotten cow-print seat covers to hide the years of spilled soda and cracker crumbs. Dad had also upgraded the sound system for me, considering the crusty tape deck had eaten a cassette years ago. The first album I played was Lifehouse's "No Name Face," and I blared the hit "Hanging By A Moment" as I studied the gears. Like the best moments in life, I was both terrified and exhilarated.

When the Bomb hit 200,000 miles and needed extensive repairs that would cost far more than my old car was worth, Dad said it was time to move on. I was devastated. The Bomb had gotten me through high school and my first transitional semester of college; as such, I was very devoted to it -- even with something resembling a rusty bullet hole in the driver’s side. Taking the car to a local charity for donation, I started to cry.

“You’re going to get a new car,” Dad said consolingly, and I remember looking forlornly out the passenger window. “And you won’t even think about this one.”

But that was one of the few times my dad has been wrong.

You never forget your first car.

Megan