When asked the make, model and license plate of my car, I’m stopped cold. I don’t know my license plate by heart, and the make and model don’t flow readily out of my mouth. Aside from getting from point A to B, I don’t much care about what I’m driving, provided it goes. It’s much easier to give a vivid description: “It’s the Dumpster on wheels with the Thule box on top.”

My car could easily be compared to the essential grocery cart of a street person, with a few garbage bags tied to the side for maximum capacity. Easy to spot in any parking lot, as age and miles pile on and more descriptive elements are added, it has a distinct and functional (somewhat) character.

This attitude drives my husband and a house full of boys crazy. As they read Road and Track over breakfast, I’m asked my thoughts about the looks of the latest and greatest automobile. I wonder why they ask, because my response is always the same. “It’s a car.” When they spot a particular model they like on the highway, they’re disappointed with my observation. “It’s a car.” Beyond the utilitarian function of the automobile, make, year and model mean nothing to me.

According to my husband, people who feel this way about cars own mini vans. When it came to selecting mine, I wasn’t particularly choosy. Bought used and sporting the typical color of your standard Dumpster, my car seemed destined for its reputation. And it lives up to the description inside and out, 364 days a year.

I can’t remember the last time that it had an exterior wash, but the interior got the annual cleanout last week. It’s become a Mother’s Day tradition, and it helps solve the mystery of where items that went missing in the last year may be found. This year the family passed on shampooing the carpets because they’re beyond hope – who knows how to remove melted candle wax and why bother with the coffee stains, they’ll be back tomorrow.

In the auto world of getting from point A to point B, my two best friends are the AAA guys and Jeremy at Village Center Auto Care in Scarborough. In fact, it is usually the roadside emergency that prompts some kind of regular maintenance. Despite my husband’s continual reminders that I’m overdue for the oil change or it’s July and the winter tires are still on, it seems I’m more inclined to follow Jeremy’s advice (somewhat) than anyone else. Perhaps it’s because I feel obligated to appreciate his love for cars. Cars are his life – all styles and makes, and he deals well with the various personalities who drive them. I know first-hand. He puts up with me, someone who views a car as simply a way to get on with my life until it comes to the infamous emergency halt and lands at his front door.

From carting kids to ski trips, camping trips, grocery runs, meetings and appointments, I live in my car. It is a well- traveled passport, with lots more people to meet and places to go (I hope)

Paid off years ago, at a 144,000-plus miles, I’m hoping there are at least five, maybe even 10 more years of life in my mini van. But my boys are beginning to ask, “Isn’t it time for a new car?” My response, “NO – I’ll drive it ’til the wheels fall off!”

My middle son’s eyes lit up in December, displaying a glimmer of new car hope. As I paid my repair bill, Jeremy gave me the rundown of maintenance needed in the near future. I eyed the list and asked: “The axle shaft sounds serious. Are my wheels going to fall off?” “No, ” Jeremy said, “but you should have it done before the snow flies.” I left relieved that I had some time. My son listed the possible new car options on the ride home.

By mid-May, the grinding sound each time I turned right or left had me concerned. Might this be related to the axle shaft maintenance that I had put off? I brought my car in and described the sound. “It sounds like a roller coaster making the climb,” I explained. Assured it was the axle shaft, I booked the appointment.

“Anything else?” Jeremy asked. Hmmm, there were other things, but they didn’t come immediately to mind. “You tell me,” I replied. Eying my car, he rattled off the list: “It’s time to take off the winter tires, I’m sure that you’re overdue for an oil change, the shredded windshield wipers can’t be working too well and the knocked-out directional light will be needed to be fixed to pass inspection.” I laughed. These were all things that I had thought about from time to time, but not enough to take action.

As the warmer temperatures arrive, so begins the battle of the windows: Open, closed, half-way up, or just a crack. If only the air conditioning worked. Perhaps that will be the next scheduled maintenance.

To this day, my husband has entertained the family with his childhood family auto stories, providing some great laughs. I have no doubt, that my mini van will add entertainment value to future family stories. For now, I’ll remain brain dead in auto land.