I believe things happen for a reason. In Jewish tradition, we sometimes call it beshert — destiny.
Earlier this month, my father passed away and in my eulogy for him, I shared the story of my first car — a 1984 Toyota Celica convertible. Coolest car in the driveway. It was 1985 and he claimed he was giving it to me because his car phone didn’t fit in the glove box. But really, I think he wanted to impress the girl I was introducing him to at that moment. Her name was Leigh Eisen and 13 years later, I tricked her into marrying me. So, I guess it worked.
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Just a week or so after returning to the office, I saw that car. Not one like it — that car. Coincidence? No way. It felt like beshert. I shared the moment in my Morning Light email and invited readers to share memories of their own first cars.
Readers share their first car memories
The responses from the St. Louis Jewish community were heartfelt, funny and deeply nostalgic. A few highlights:
Lucie Watel still remembers sneaking her family’s giant white station wagon around Clayton at 4 a.m. as a teenager — wearing her mother’s herringbone coat, steering a gold-speckled wheel and sometimes driving down the wrong side of Wydown Boulevard. 
“I loved the peace, quiet and freedom of those early mornings,” Lucie said. “It felt like the whole world was mine.”
Keith Guller was gifted a 1950-ish Plymouth Valiant with a push-button transmission by his Uncle Fred — plus a madras jacket from a “buy-one-get-one” deal. The car burned through four to five quarts of oil every time he drove it. “I had to carry cases of oil in the trunk everywhere I went,” Keith wrote. “Every stoplight became a pit stop.”
Nicholas Strauss grew up hearing his mother’s warning: “Never buy a German car. Not after what the Nazis did.” But when he spotted a pale blue VW Beetle, he couldn’t resist –rusty, rickety and entirely his own. “I knew what it meant to her,” Nicholas said, “but I bought it anyway. I wanted a car that was mine. I don’t regret my decision.”
Kent Hirschfelder remembers his 1966 Pontiac GTO — silver with black interior, bucket seats and a roar that made him feel invincible. “We joked it stood for ‘Gas, Tires, Oil,’” Kent said, “but really, it stood for freedom.” Late nights cruising Forsyth and Skinker boulevards, windows down, music up. “I drove it way too fast,” he admitted — but never without a grin.
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Bill Motchan shared his ’65 Oldsmobile Dynamic 88 — a $500 starter car with cracked vinyl seats, a $29 Earl Scheib powder-blue paint job and a transmission that sometimes stuck in first gear. “Not a great car,” Bill said, “but it got around town just fine.”
Linda Spitzer Gavatin thought she had ordered her dream car: a brand-new Ford Maverick, custom-picked down to the color and trim. Instead, she got a lemon. The alternator failed within days, the fuel pump quit every winter, and the leather top peeled within years. “This was before lemon laws,” Linda said. “I finally traded it in and have never bought a Ford since.”
Tracy Speller called her dad’s car “the kids’ car,” the one all the siblings shared when they needed wheels. That freedom came with risks — until the car met its end in a 14-car pile-up on Highway 40. Her big brother was behind the wheel and, thankfully, walked away unharmed.
Fae Kelley bought her first car — a 1957 Chevrolet Biscayne — from military men in Nashville who’d kept it running in the motor pool. She needed it for her student-teaching job and still remembers the pride of ownership. Simple, sturdy and hers.
Leslie Sabol remembers his 1961 Triumph TR3 — dark blue with a white drop top, side curtains, and a push-button starter with a crank for emergencies. It even came with a tonneau cover. “Lots of fun!” he wrote, and you can almost hear the smile behind it.
When cars become part of who we are
These stories make it clear that our first cars weren’t just vehicles — they were freedom, rebellion, and connection all rolled into one. From the emails I received, it’s obvious those cars also taught lessons about responsibility, risk and resilience.
For me, though, there’s a part of my own story I didn’t tell earlier. A few years after my dad gave me the Celica, he took it away — said I was “acting too cool” behind the wheel. He gave it to my brother instead and not long after, my brother wrecked it.
So, did I really spot my dad’s Celica a week or so after he passed? I’ll go on believing I did. Sometimes, beshert shows up in unexpected places — even at the intersection of Delmar Boulevard and Hanley Road.
