When our late March 60-70 degree temperatures hit it signaled rag top and drop top owners to go for a Sunday drive, even if it was last Thursday at lunchtime. At every stop sign, or stoplight, I became more and more envious of those drivers in their convertibles.

If I was 40 years younger I might have pulled into a car dealership to see how much they’d give me for a trade-in on my 10-yearold SUV.

Make that 50 years younger because at 30 all I could afford was an old model Volkswagen bug.

In my twenties we had a turquoise MG rag top, or maybe it was an MGB.

We went on rallies, or maybe they’re called something else now. The idea was you were given a map with a marked destination, and maybe a time limit to get there.

Our problem, at first, was that I was the navigator, and my husband was the driver.

It didn’t help that we’d only been married about two years.

He was 20. I was 19, had never looked at a map before, and didn’t know that most women aren’t born map readers.

It worked much better when I drove, but I don’t recall us reaching a single designated site without us following a friend.

Another big problem, other than the plastic side windows, was that the top had to be snapped onto the vehicle. You couldn’t be in a hurry to do that as we learned during a drive at OKC’s Lake Overholser when we were invaded by a swarm of bees.

Our next car was a 1964 T-bird convertible, and had a push button top that went into the trunk.

Yes, our car, that he drove home one day, and I made the monthly payments until we were divorced.

Then I had to pay the finance company about $500. I borrowed that money from my Daddy and paid him back at $25 a month, until I got a big income tax refund, and wrote him a check.

My ex had also bought us a standard T-bird, and I’m unsure how he handled those payments after we’d split.

Then by 1968, I may have been making $3 an hour at the Press Association after being hired at $1.25 an hour in 1962.

That raise must have helped me buy a 1960-ish beige-colored Volkswagen.

It started almost all the time, except in the extreme cold weather. That’s when I’d push it down the driveway, then down a hill, jump in, pop the clutch, and it always started.

Unfortunately my three-year-old son told my mother what I’d done, but other raises later qualified me for a loan on a new, blue Dodge.

That was after I’d used my VW as a trade-in, and got as much as I’d originally paid for it.

Years later that two-door Dodge, that may or may not have had air conditioning, carried me, my son, and my new husband and three or four of his children (plus his son’s girlfriend) to Canton Lake.

I still wish I had a convertible.

Our weekend rain and hail storms put a damper on convertible weather. However, I’m certain there are some who drove with their tops down in 40 degree weather, and had their heaters on full blast. Hm-m-m.

Let me check my lottery ticket from last week to see if I could join them in a few days.