My father had bought the new Beetle to replace our enormous, gas-guzzling station wagon - the “Conestoga Wagon,” my sister called it. On the other hand, the year was 1973, so wild ties were in, and another kind of crisis was looming: an energy one. Our father had recently taken to wearing loud ties, so naturally we saw this sporty new Beetle as just another step in his march toward a mid-life crisis. “He’s gone off the deep end,” my older sister exclaimed, clapping a hand to her forehead (or perhaps just shading her eyes from the paint job). The Volkswagen Beetle that my father rolled to a stop in our driveway was electric yellow with a red-and-black racing stripe and a moon roof. The author, age 9, dressed as Cousin It for Halloween, in an earlier VW Beetle than the bright yellow one her father would bring home when she was 15.
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