Donna Sweet got pregnant three times due to a 1964 Chevy Impala.

To be clear, she didn’t get pregnant in a Chevy Impala — she got pregnant because of the Impala. 

We grew up in an adjacent towns; our fathers worked together. Donna was a tough gal, a few years older and 10 years more sophisticated. She used to cut off her field hockey shirts so her midriff showed. I would take a four-mile bicycle ride just to casually ride by her team’s practice field. Once, I got so distracted I pedaled my bike into a picnic table. 

When I was a senior in high school, Donna married a guy named Paul Sweet.

My dad retired, her dad died,  my family lost touch with hers.

But last March, I got a short e-mail from her. She had stumbled onto something I wrote for a magazine back east which had my address. 

We caught each other up on our few mutual friends and families. Since I type like a drunk monkey, I tend to keep my e-mails short. She would write back a fairly long message, and I’d write back making a few observations, ask some questions and peck-out a paragraph about my self and situation. She would usually respond with a beautifully written, well thought-out communiqué telling me about her life, work and children. I think it it is easier to be frank with someone when you assume you’ll never see again. 

I had not seen her in person since the days when I road my bike into a picnic table. So, in my mind’s eye, I was writing a young gal with a bare belly instead of an old lady.

What I took away from her letters was she was successful, content, fulfilled with her work and hobbies and never considered remarrying. She mentioned friends — mostly women — a passion for sailing and her love of her three children, all who have graduated from college and are successful themselves. 

I asked her how long she had been divorced and if the process was painful. She told me she had been single for over 30 years. She said, “Aside from my kids, I often forget that I was ever married.” She added, “If I’m honest with myself, the only reason I ended up with Paul was because of that damn car.”

She went on to explain that when she was in high school, Paul was one of the first kids to have his own vehicle. Donna admitted that Paul Sweet was dashing, a few years older and good-looking. But what first got her attention, she wrote, was that 1964 
Chevy Impala.

“While the other girls were going to cheerleader practice and French Club meetings after school, Paul and I would drive to Cape Cod, have a cup of coffee, and turn around and drive home — my parents wouldn’t let me be out late on a school night.”

Donna went on to explain that of course she grew to love Paul Sweet, but what first caught her eye was that convertible. She explained that she married on her 21st birthday, continued to attend junior college and didn’t get pregnant until she had graduated.

“I was young, sheltered and wanted to have a life of my own. Paul wasn’t a bad guy, but I had already given birth to three kids before I realized we had little in common,” she wrote. Donna continued, “During those tough years, when I’d looked back on my life, the happiest moments — aside from the birth of my children — was driving back from the Cape with the top down.” She added, “How pathetic is that?”

Since then, Donna has done well. A secretary job at a real estate office led to an associate position, which led to a broker’s license which has turned into a 30-foot sailboat. 

Donna Sweet has had a fairly happy life. Yes, there were some hiccups and a few challenging times. But sometimes the most ordinary of lives take on more meaning if considered in their entirety. After about 7 months of back and forth, I wondered, other than my name, if she remembered me at all. 

Then, as if reading my mind,  she asked if I still ride my bicycle into furniture.

I asked Donna Sweet if I could use her name and tell her story. She agreed.

“And feel free to use the name of that car,” she said. “That Impala was nothing but trouble.”