I was 11 when my father parked a brand-new Pontiac in our driveway. He named her Yvonne because he liked the way Yvonne LeMans rolled off his tongue.
On our first ride I sat on the back seat with my two sisters, bound for outer space. The motor sounded like the roar of a lightly-sedated tiger; the upholstery was clean and smooth. We rode around the block with my dad at the wheel, and my mother in the passenger seat. (more…)