It was never about the car.
When I was a five-year-old kindergartener, I remember so vividly standing outside my school waiting for my mom. That’s when I saw her. This beautiful woman who looked like Jackie Kennedy pulled up to pick up her first-grade daughter. She was radiant. Elegant. Joyful. There was something different about her compared to the other mothers I had seen. She had a light that seemed to radiate from within, the kind of presence that makes you stop and notice. The French call it a je ne sais quoi….that indescribable “it factor.”
I was only five years old, but I knew that I wanted to be like her when I grew up….full of joy, full of grace, and full of that light. Whatever she had, I wanted that.
At five, I didn’t know a thing about cars. I knew most moms drove wood paneled station wagons and that this mom was different. She pulled up in something beautiful. It was a 1970 280 SE Mercedes convertible. The car was as elegant as she was, and together, they made quite the lasting impression.
I didn’t understand cars, but I did recognize beauty. And I understood dreams. Somehow, I tucked that moment away. I told myself that one day, I would be like her. I would have little boys, I would pick them up at that same school my dad had gone to, and I would radiate that joy….in that car.
It was one dream, but it came with many layers: the children, the school, the joy, the light and the car. It was a package deal.
Dreams That Stick
As life unfolded, I married, and eventually, I had three little boys. And oh, how those boys loved cars, especially my oldest. Almost every night at dinner, without fail, he would ask me, “Mommy, if you could have any car in the whole wide world, what car would you have?”
And every night, I gave the same answer: the 280 SE. I would tell him the story of how, when I was his age, I saw that car and knew one day I would drive it. We would talk about dreams, about believing in them, and why they mattered.
One night, after hearing the story again, he looked at me with those wise little boy eyes and said, “Mommy, you already have the little boys. We go to that school. All you need now is the car.”
He was right.
But when you’re raising small children, another car…especially one like that…..just isn’t a priority. Truthfully, you never need a car like that. Cars like that are best for dreams.
The Surprise of a Lifetime
As my 40th birthday approached, unbeknownst to me, my husband began searching for the car. When my birthday came and went, he sheepishly confessed what he had been up to but admitted he couldn’t find one that wasn’t rusted or wildly out of reach financially. I was touched by his effort but never expected such a thing anyway. The moment passed, and life with three little boys rolled on.
By September, our youngest had just started kindergarten. One afternoon, I was on the lawn playing with the boys when I heard the sound of a car coming up the street. My husband pulled up, and I froze. He was driving the car. A black 1970 280 SE convertible, with the blue and yellow original license plates that said, 4 R MA. It was the car I had dreamed of since I was five years old.
I was speechless. How could this be real?
The boys screamed with excitement. My oldest son jumped up and down, shouting, “Mommy! Mommy! Your dream came true!” I will never forget that moment. It wasn’t just about the car. It was about a dream…one I had held onto for 35 years…..that had finally come true.
Dreams don’t always work out like that. Often, life has other plans. But when one does, when you see something you’ve held in your heart since childhood finally come to life, it’s like an out-of-body experience. It affirms something deep inside you: that faith and belief matter. That dreams are worth holding onto.
Mrs. Fink
The very next morning, I piled the boys into the car for school. It was a gorgeous day. With the top down, we could see the ocean shining from the hills. The boys were laughing and I felt the wind on my face. Pulling into that same carpool line with my three little boys in the back of a 280 SE, I felt it. The puzzle piece snapped into place.
It was exactly as I had imagined when I was five.
When I picked the boys up that afternoon, my oldest asked, “Mommy, what are we going to name her?”
The car had a brass plate on the dashboard that read, This Mercedes Benz coach built exclusively for Norma Fink. Without hesitation, I said, “I think we should call her Mrs. Fink.”
And just like that, Mrs. Fink became the sixth member of our family.
From that day forward, “Fink Days” were born. On gorgeous, sunny afternoons, one of the boys would declare, “I think it’s a Fink Day!” and off we’d go. Mrs. Fink taught my boys that joy wasn’t just about big things or trips….it was about noticing and celebrating a beautiful day.
Lessons From an Old Convertible
Mrs. Fink was never perfect. She was well-loved and well-used. Her leather was worn, her engine purred like something out of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and she was sticky more often than not from melted ice cream cones. But she was joy on four wheels.
When my husband told me he had ordered license plates BIG 4 0 because the real Mrs. Fink wanted her original license plates back. I decided to write Norma Fink a love letter and I sent it off with the original license plates and a photo of the boys and me in the car. I told Norma about my childhood dream, how this car had found its way to us, and that I knew I was only her temporary custodian. I promised to love her and care for her until it was time to pass her on.
A week later, I received a letter from Norma. She told me she, too, had been given the car for her 40th birthday. She had filled it with her three daughters and made countless memories. She shared that she had since lost her vision and could no longer drive. But she had put my photo on her refrigerator and found joy in knowing her beloved car was still making children happy. She said she had peace knowing I was meant to be her car’s next custodian.
She was right.
For 20 years, Mrs. Fink was joy in motion. Trips to the beach with sandy feet, drives down the coast, silly carpool karaoke, and family adventures. Whenever life felt heavy, a spin in Mrs. Fink was the cure. She reminded us that life is meant to be lived with joy, with spontaneity, and with gratitude.
When Joy Becomes Memory
As the boys grew older, our drives became less frequent but more intentional. We’d plan lunches in Malibu or Sunday drives with the top down. She was always there, ready to turn an ordinary moment into something unforgettable.
Even during Covid, when the boys returned home from college and the world felt so uncertain, Mrs. Fink brought comfort. “Let’s take her for a drive,” they would say, and off we’d go, circling town with the wind in our hair, letting her magic lift our spirits.
But time has a way of changing things. Mrs. Fink grew more valuable, more delicate. Insurance made it difficult to take her out for ordinary errands. She began collecting dust in the garage. The dog and I were the only one driving her every now and again.
Then last week, my oldest son took Mrs. Fink out when her brakes failed. By some miracle, he guided her safely into a lot. Shaken but safe, strangers helped him out. He later posted a photo of Mrs. Fink on a tow truck with the caption: “Bad day for the Fink but a good day for humanity.” That was Mrs. Fink. Even broken down, she inspired kindness and perspective.
A car collector friend of my sons saw the post and asked about the car. My son told him that Mrs. Fink was his mom’s car and not for sale. The car collector continued to reach out asking about the car and made an offer. After much conversation, we accepted. The realization was the time had come. Just like our children, we are only temporary custodians. We cannot hold onto things or people forever, only our memories. It would be selfish for her to sit and collect dust and not be enjoyed. It was time to share her joy with someone else.
Saying Goodbye
Today, I said goodbye to Mrs. Fink.
As I signed the paperwork, I realized something remarkable: she had arrived on September 22nd, and she was leaving on September 22nd, two decades later. Life has a funny way of coming full circle.
I took her out for one last drive. The sun was shining and it was a gorgous first day of fall. As the wind whipped through my hair, I whispered my gratitude to her.
Thank you for proving that dreams can come true.
Thank you for the joy, the laughter, and the memories.
Thank you for teaching my boys about spontaneity, gratitude, and joy.
Mrs. Fink was never just a car. She was a dream come true, a member of our family, a teacher of joy, and a symbol of belief. She showed us that life’s most beautiful gifts aren’t always about the thing itself, but about what it represents.
Because it was never about the car.
It was always about the dream.
CHARITY MATTERS.
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