I confess that I suffered from an addiction to the ownership of a new car every two years or so. It did not have to be a brand new car; a more recent, used car seemed to offer me the “fix” that enabled me to survive for about a 24-month period. This disorder particularly affected me in my young adulthood. I recall, in one three-year period, I had owned five cars: a used 1968 Chevy Malibu (plum colored), a new 1975 Chevrolet Caprice Classic (a sand colored gem), a new 1978 Chevy Nova (a burgundy, boxy thing), a new 1978 Ford Thunderbird (a dove grey, downsized version of the 1977 model with hideaway headlamps), and a new 1979 Subaru (dark brown, unadorned but with front wheel drive which no American car I could afford then offered). My marriage brought temporary relief to this disorder. I announced one Saturday morning in the autumn that I was going to Stiver Chevy Olds in Hubbard for my annual automobile gazing ritual.