Ah, the good old days of cars you could actually work on yourself. I’m not talking about my old Jeep—that thing was a nightmare. Multiple trips to the mechanic, countless headaches, and let’s not forget that “epic” six-month saga of trying to get a motor that actually worked. It took three tries (thanks for nothing, warranty company). Nope, I don’t miss that Jeep at all. But I do miss the simpler, sturdier vehicles that came before all this modern technological chaos—like my trusty ’99 S-10 or the good ol’ ’88 Mercury Topaz.
Back then, cars were made of metal, not plastic that crumples if you so much as look at it wrong. When something broke, you could actually pop the hood, identify the problem, and fix it yourself with a bit of elbow grease and maybe some duct tape. No expensive diagnostic tools, no software updates, no proprietary nonsense that forces you to take it to the dealership. It was empowering, honestly—rolling up in front of the garage, grease under your nails, and knowing you could handle it.
Now? Forget it. Modern vehicles are like rolling computers. They beep, ding, and flash warnings for everything. Low tire pressure? BEEP. Door ajar? BEEP. Existential crisis? BEEP. And don’t even get me started on trying to fix something. Oh, your check engine light is on? You’ll need a special diagnostic tool just to figure out what the heck it means, and odds are it’s something completely ridiculous. My Jeep was a pain to work on, but at least I didn’t need a degree in computer science to deal with it.
When we went shopping for a new car recently—because that Jeep finally pushed me past my limit—I couldn’t help but feel like a bit of a dinosaur. Newer vehicles are so technologically dependent, I felt obsolete just looking at them. I don’t want to plug my car into a laptop to tell me why it won’t start. I want something I can troubleshoot myself. Something built to last, not to depend on.
I test-drove an SUV—a 20-teen Ford Explorer—and instead of a good old-fashioned gauge panel, it had a full-on TV screen with digital gauges. I mean, it looked fancy, sure, but what happens when that thing glitches out? Do I just guess how fast I’m going until the screen comes back on?
The real kicker? These modern cars are supposed to be “smarter” and “more advanced,” but they often cost more in repairs and take longer to fix. The nostalgia for older vehicles isn’t just about sentimentality—it’s about practicality. Those older cars were rugged, straightforward, and didn’t require a trip to the dealership for every hiccup.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I did fall in love with a 2015 Chevy Traverse during my search. The black leather seats won me over immediately (hello, easy cleaning—because on a farm, mud is a way of life). And the third-row seating? An absolute must with a family that’s rapidly outgrowing standard-sized vehicles. But even this beauty comes packed with all kinds of bells and whistles that make me feel like I’m piloting a spaceship instead of driving a car.
For example, I can’t just open the rear hatch myself—nope, it insists on opening itself with the push of a button. Same goes for the seats; no levers, just electric buttons to slide them forward or back. Don’t even get me started on the sensors. The mirrors have fancy little lights that beep like crazy if I cross any line on the road—whether it’s the center or the shoulder—and they’ll holler at me if I even think about switching lanes too close to another car. Oh, and there’s that constant barrage of chimes and alerts to keep me in line. It’s like the car is judging me for not being perfect.
Admittedly, there’s one techy feature I don’t mind—when my radio connects to Pandora via Bluetooth. That’s a game-changer. I’ll never get tired of blasting music with deep bass (because, let’s face it, today’s radio stations just aren’t delivering). But still, I can’t help but long for the simplicity of those older cars. Back then, I didn’t need the car to yell at me or take over basic tasks. I just needed it to work.
Older vehicles like my S-10 and Mercury Topaz were built to be practical and durable. They didn’t need to beep at me for crossing a line, and they certainly didn’t demand a trip to the dealership for every minor fix. Sure, newer cars might have fancy features, but when you need a manual just to figure out how to adjust your seat, it feels like the trade-off isn’t always worth it.
I don’t miss my Jeep—how could I? That thing was cursed from the start. When my mom first bought it, we discovered it was possessed. The lights flashed, the windows rolled up and down, the wipers turned on, and the alarm blared—completely at random, without a soul touching it. Between us, it went through five engines, and by the end, our mechanic flat-out admitted defeat. He told us we could spend $1,300 on a new head gasket, but chances were it would just blow the other side (which the warranty had just replaced during its six-month stint in the shop). This Jeep had been rebuilt practically twice over and still kept finding new ways to break down. Honestly, I wanted to take it out back and put it out of its misery—and ours.
Here’s the thing: cars should empower you. They should make you feel capable and self-reliant, not like you’re constantly at the mercy of the latest tech. But those older cars—the ones you could work on with a basic set of tools, the ones that didn’t talk back—they gave you a sense of control. And sometimes, I miss that simplicity.
So here’s to the days of the S-10 and Mercury Topaz, when cars were tools, not mysteries. Do I sound like a curmudgeon? Probably. But if you’ve ever cursed a modern car for needing a five-step reset process to open the glove compartment, you know where I’m coming from.
What’s your take? Do you miss the old days of wrenching on your car in the driveway, or have you embraced the high-tech revolution? Pull up a chair—we’ve got a lot to commiserate about.
Until next time,
Traci
