In August, I wrote the final check in a five-year car loan for my 1995 Ford Taurus wagon. There was much rejoicing. There was much excitement. Hooray! It's paid off! More money floating around the family budget.

Two days later, the rearview mirror fell off.

Was this cruel irony or a case of planned obsolescence? I prefer to think of it as a warning signal, just like the small tremors in earthquake-prone regions that signal a Big One is coming. It seems that the rearview mirror, in its own way, was trying to tell me that something bigger, something more devastating was on its way. A couple weeks ago, that something hit. The car developed a hiccup. Well, it was more like a musical rattle. It wasn't loud, just unnatural. What seemed to be something small resulted in a major transmission repair and a bill equaling almost four car payments. Suddenly, other people I knew was experiencing some form of automobile arrest.

A friend thought she had a small gas leak. It turns out her gas tank's welded seams are rusting apart. When she asked the head mechanic to also check the front end alignment while they were replacing the tank he said, "Y'know, I don't really want any of my people driving your car." Also that week, my parents' battery died. A jump start from AAA allowed them to drive down the road and purchase a new battery, but there remained some concern about a "check brakes" light. Two days later, the brakes were pronounced healthy. The dealer still hasn't figured out how to override the radio's anti-theft programming that kicked in when the battery quit.

Americans are very mobile, and we depend on our vehicles. Repairs are costly in terms of money, as well as time. They can drain your bank account and send your life into a tailspin as you reschedule meetings and find alternative transportation.

More than that, we develop a relationship with our cars. When a car lets you down, there's a sense of betrayal. It's like being stood up for a date. "How could you?" we ask.

If you think that's a bit of hyperbole, consider this: How many of us can describe our first car in as much detail -- if not more -- as our first love? Americans' love affair with the automobile is something I'm sure Henry Ford didn't envisiion when he developed the Model A.

My first (car, that is) was a 1973 Ford Grand Torino. Nothing romantic or stylish, but it was mine, a graduation gift that would enable me to go back and forth to ACC. It was tattered and battered, bumper to bumper and radiator to tail pipe. A massive tuneup was in order, along with some serious transmission work. Even after all that, it was an oil-guzzling boat, from crumpled bow to rusty stern, with a temperamental carburetor and a crackly AM radio.

A high school friend, whose family owned a transmission shop, did the repairs over the summer. I was warned it was to be an "in town car" only, so I can't say it ever took me on any exciting road trips. I wandered around town between classes and got to know the beauty of the surrounding countryside. Thinking back, that car enabled me to taste freedom and be, literally, in the driver's seat of my life for the first time.

When I got my two-year degree and transferred, The Blue Bomb stayed behind. I was home for January break when it suffered irreparable injuries in a hit-and-run accident. The fragile right rear fender, which had been held together with a mixture of rust and stuff called "Bondo," was smashed and the wheel well ruined.

I took pictures as the tow truck carried it away.

It may be silly to attach such significance to a hunk of metal. A car is just a mode of transportation. A tool for getting from one place to another. Four tires, an engine and a steering wheel.

Then why do so many people give nicknames to their cars, cajole them on frosty February mornings and encourage them through traffic tie-ups on hot summer highways? It may not be logical, but cars become our friends, friends who get us over hills and through rough terrain.

Speaking of friends, the person who repaired my first car is the same person who fixed my current car. Hats off to Keith at A2000 in Queensbury. I can't imagine who I'd trust my car to if he weren't around!

Kay Hafner, a writer from Queensbury, can be reached via her Web site at http://kayhafner.homepage.com .