I was in high school when my father decided we needed a second car. Three of us—Mom, Dad and I—were juggling turns taking the Chevy where we needed to go. One afternoon Dad drove home a yellow VW Beetle. He taught me to work the clutch and shift gears, and I was allowed to drive to my high school in Northern Virginia a couple times a week and use the Beetle to visit friends on the weekend.

Dad had a notebook in the glove compartment where he recorded gas purchases and figured the mileage the Beetle was getting. He knew my friends were just a couple miles away and in those frugal times I shouldn’t have used much gas. Georgetown, where we could drink at eighteen, was exactly six miles from my house and I figured out how to disconnect the odometer so Dad wouldn’t be wise to my adventures. Then I’d add a trickle of gas to the tank to compensate for the miles I’d driven. One day he announced with a note of irony that I seemed to be getting exceptionally good gas mileage in the Beetle. From then on, I had to advance to higher math to figure out just how many fractions of a gallon to add to the tank for my surreptitious trips into the Capital.

When I went to college, I had to leave the Beetle behind. I got a part-time job and eventually saved enough money to buy a used car. In the classifieds I found a VW Beetle and bought it. I taught myself to change the oil and spark plugs and even tune the valves. When I screwed up and the VW coughed and wheezed, a local mechanic showed me where I’d gone wrong.

I kept that car running until I got married and moved to Vermont, where road salt winters rusted out the body. H’s truck was a gas guzzler, and we needed a more economical vehicle. When a neighbor put her Beetle up for sale, we didn’t hesitate.

The later model Beetle came with a glass vase on the dashboard holding a small bunch of artificial flowers. My hockey player husband knew the guys would tease him mercilessly if he showed up at the rink with flowers in the vase, so he tossed them out and inserted a tire gauge, hacksaw blade and pencil. He still got ribbed but won a few points when he compared gas mileage with his fellow players who drove bigger rides.

We kept the Bug for nearly a decade, fixing little quirks like a sticky door latch and the seat belt light that wouldn’t go off. H put a square of black electrical tape over the dashboard light so we wouldn’t see it. We never had any major engine problems, but H wasn’t willing to press his luck driving a fourteen-year-old car to Seattle to deliver a lamp. It was time to trade in the little guy.

For months H had been talking about the little delivery vans we saw all over town with company names printed on the sides. Florists. Electricians. Plumbers. Dry cleaners. Even the King Street Youth Center had one. The newer models got up to forty miles per gallon, and H said he could make the back into a camper with cubbies and a fold-out bed.

By February the new models weren’t available yet, so H scrapped the van idea. We test drove lots of cars, some too large, some too small. I was starting to feel like Goldilocks.

H wanted something comfortable, economical and fun. Finally we ended up at a Volkswagen dealership. Diesel fuel was now available all over the country and if we couldn’t find a pump for passenger cars, the VW came with an adaptor for filling up at truck pumps. A diesel was guaranteed to get forty miles a gallon no matter how much we crammed into the trunk space.

The new Bug was like an old friend except for the keyless entry and ignition, and the vase was gone. The six-speed standard transmission and diesel engine felt more masculine, especially in the faded denim color. There was enough flexibility in the seat positions to adjust both for his six-feet-two build and my five-feet-two frame. H plunked down some money and we drove it off the snowy lot.

The six-speed took some getting used to and we each stalled it out a few times. But eventually we got the hang of it. Since it was nearly spring and we would take a southern route on the trip, we decided against snow tires. By the time we returned to Vermont, undoubtedly the sap would be running and daffodils would be peeking from the frozen ground.

We had planned to leave on Sunday morning, but on Saturday the weather forecast showed winter storm Titan bearing down on the mid-Atlantic coast. Already the sky was thick with clouds and I had an ominous feeling at the back of my neck.

“We should leave today,” I said.

“How fast you can get ready?” he answered.

I had already packed my duffel. It wouldn’t take me long.

H put the back seats down so we’d have more cargo space. He first nestled in the two boxes containing the Prairie lantern—the most important cargo. We planned to stop in Washington, D.C. to see my son Bry, and I had bought a case of his favorite Vermont beer and candles for his girlfriend. For staying with other family members, I had seven jugs of Vermont maple syrup and two jars of honey for gifts. We hoped to camp several nights to save money, so we pushed in a tent, two sleeping bags, a cooler of food, three bottles of wine, a liter of water, two tins of cookies, and a loaf of Irish soda bread I had recently made. An espresso coffee maker, coffee, a box of crackers, a tin of almonds, and my pillow. Our duffels went on top for quick access and, of course, my laptop and H’s iPad.

I was planning to take a light jacket, but at the last minute H insisted I take my big down coat. There was a snowstorm on the way, after all. He had stuffed in several of his coats, mostly as cushioning for the lamp boxes.

Toward the front I found room for five books on CD I’d checked out of the library. After twenty-five years of marriage, we had talked out just about everything and would need a stranger’s voice to tell us some stories—Ted Kennedy’s memoir True Compass, Louis Erdrich’s novel Round House, Laura Hillenbrand’s Unbroken, a short lesson from Ekhart Tolle, and another novel we never got around to. The Kennedy book alone was seventeen CDs, which would take us nearly all the way to Seattle.

Packed to the roof, the diesel growled a low hum. Seatbelts fastened, storm bearing down, and light fading, H slipped into first gear and we were off.<>