I have very few childhood memories that are more than one or two degrees of separation from a Volkswagen. During the sixties, my decade of single digits, the aunts had a succession of beetles while our family had a bus, nicknamed the General.

The General was nothing to remark about when at home, but on family vacations it became legend. We lived halfway between the Blue Ridge Mountains (west) and Virginia Beach (east), so we alternated years for the two destinations.

Seatbelts were a futuristic notion at the time. Before we left, my father would take out one of the two bench seats in the back, turn it around backwards, and clamp it down again so that the two seats were facing each other. Between these two seats he would place a small card table so we could play Spit. Silly game, but at least it didn’t involve any actual spitting. We would pack up our supplies, always including a large bag of lemon drops, and hit the road.

When driving in the mountains, I got never-ending delight from being the apparent engine of a train. As we trundled uphill, the line of cars behind us would grow ever longer, and we would gather at the back window to greet our followers. Sometimes the other drivers were grumpy, but I recall one man who played with us by ducking below his dashboard and popping up to shoot at us with finger guns. Eventually, Daddy would find a pullout and stop to let the train go by, and then the process would start all over again.

My father built an ingenious contraption from plywood and canvas which, when assembled, made a lean-to on the side of the General. I don’t recall using it in the mountains, but we always set it up when we went to the beach. We would arrive at the campground and cruise around until we found a good site. Then, Mama and we girls would pile out to lay claim to our new territory, while Daddy went to register at the campground office. When he came back, we would set up the lean-to, and the General wouldn’t move until we were ready to go home.

I also seem to recall practicing my driving with the General. On one memorable occasion I popped the clutch and leapfrogged halfway from the driveway to the crepe myrtle tree while Mama shouted, “stop stop stop!”

Eventually, the General chugged its last, and was replaced by the One and Only Warthog. But that’s another story entirely.