I was somewhere between my third and fourth cider when I found her. Purple. 1971. Sitting on Facebook Marketplace like she'd been waiting for me specifically.
The Spark
It started with Molly Ringwald.
I was not a teenager when I first saw Pretty in Pink. I was a kid with excellent taste in movies and cars. And Andie — played by Molly Ringwald, driving that pink Karmann Ghia through suburban Chicago — planted something in me that apparently never left.
I didn't grow up in a family that talked about cars the way some people do. But we had VWs. A Bus, a Beetle, a couple Jettas, mostly. So there was already a language there, a familiarity with the way those cars feel and sound and smell. And the Ghia — with its low, swooping coachwork, its curves that looked like nothing else VW ever made — felt like the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen on four wheels.
I filed it away the way you file away things that feel slightly out of reach. Someday, maybe. When the timing is right. When life allows for it.
That was forty-something years ago.
The Find
A cider, a phone, and very bad timing.
John and I were having drinks. I was maybe two and a half ciders in — that particular sweet spot where your inhibitions are slightly lower than usual but your judgment hasn't fully left the building — when I opened Facebook Marketplace. I wasn't looking for anything specific. I was just looking.
And there she was.
Purple. Bright, unapologetic purple. A 1971 Karmann Ghia listed by a car enthusiast in his eighties, somewhere in the area. 75,000 miles. Garaged. $12,500.
I showed John. He laughed at me in the way that means he wasn't surprised at all.
I sent a message before I could talk myself out of it.
Chuck and His Wife
"I would be honored to continue her legacy."
When Chuck called, I was a little nervous. I told him that upfront — that I wasn't sure how to ask about the car given the circumstances. Because the circumstances mattered.
The Ghia had been his wife's car. He'd bought it for her, painted it purple because she loved that color, kept it garaged and maintained for twenty years. His wife has dementia now. She can't drive anymore. And so Chuck was doing the hardest kind of thing — letting go of something he'd cared for carefully, for someone he loves, hoping it ends up with the right person.
I listened to his story. I told him about my family's VWs, about the kid who saw Pretty in Pink and fell a little bit in love with a car she'd never seen in real life. I said, "Oh, my heart." Because it was true.
And then I said that if things worked out, it would be my honor to continue her legacy.
I meant it. I still mean it.
Dragonfly
She came with her name.
The license plate is DRAGNFY.
She named it Dragonfly. A purple, swooping little coupe named Dragonfly. Chuck's wife had style, and I would like her very much if we ever got to meet properly.
The plate stays. That's not negotiable. A car that arrives with its name already on it doesn't need a new one.
I've been looking into Oregon plates — whether I can get DRAGNFY on a Bee Pollinator plate, whether the retro Pacific Wonderland plate allows custom (it doesn't, sadly). The details are still being sorted. But the name is decided. It was decided before I was even part of the story.
The Timing
Sometimes things line up.
I turn fifty in January.
This past year has been one of the harder ones — a layoff after six and a half years, a job search that took longer than expected, a lot of rebuilding. Not just professionally. The kind of rebuilding where you figure out what you actually want on the other side of something difficult.
I've spent the last year working on my portfolio, taking on freelance work, interviewing. And this week, I got a verbal job offer from a company I'm genuinely excited about. It's not official yet. But for the first time in a while, the answer to "can I responsibly do this?" might actually be yes.
I'm not buying Dragonfly because of the job. That's not how I make decisions. But the job — if it comes through officially — changes how the purchase feels. It turns "can I justify this?" into "I've wanted this for forty years and I'm finally in a position to enjoy it responsibly." Those are different sentences.
I am turning fifty in January.
A purple Karmann Ghia named Dragonfly would be a pretty remarkable way to drive into that decade.
Not Yet
But maybe soon.
Chuck is going to call me next week to set up a visit. I'll meet him, hear more of the story, look at Dragonfly in person for the first time. I'll get a pre-purchase inspection done — because I love the car and the story and I'm still going to verify what's underneath, because that's what a careful buyer does. I have a cheat sheet of what to look for. I know about heater channels and floorpans and why you inspect the metal before you inspect the paint.
The official offer from the job hasn't landed yet either. There are still pieces moving.
But for the first time in a long time, I'm sitting with something that feels like genuine anticipation rather than anxious waiting. The kind where you don't need the outcome to be confirmed to enjoy the possibility. Where you can let a thing unfold at its own pace and trust that it will land where it's supposed to.
Dragonfly has had two chapters so far. The woman who loved purple and named her car after a dragonfly. And Chuck, who kept that love alive for twenty years.
I don't know yet if I get to be chapter three.
But I think I might.
Update — July 6th
Chuck called at 9am.
He called right at nine in the morning, which somehow feels exactly right for a man who has kept a 1971 Karmann Ghia in running condition for twenty years. I called him back an hour later and we had another lovely conversation.
I told him I'd like to come visit soon, and that I'd love to bring my husband — John is a car guy, and I wanted a second set of eyes. Chuck was delighted. "Oh, he'll probably love what I have in the shop!" I have absolutely no idea what else is in that shop, and I cannot wait to find out.
He told me his wife is home and comfortable, has everything she needs. I told him I'd been thinking about them both this past week. I meant it.
He also mentioned that a couple of other ladies had been looking at the car. But I'm first in line. He said Dragonfly is ready when I am.
We're going on Sunday the 12th at 2pm. John's coming. There's a mystery car in the shop. And we're taking El Rojo.
El Rojo is my 2020 Jetta — bright orange, named with the same logic you name any car you've developed a relationship with. He's my daily driver. The modern member of the VW family. And it seemed only right that he should be the one to make the introduction.
Orange and purple. Fifty years of Volkswagen history parked side by side in a driveway in Battle Ground, Washington. One representing where VW has been, the other representing where it went. I'm going to get him washed before Sunday. It feels like the right thing to do before an important meeting.
Somewhere in Battle Ground, a purple 1971 Karmann Ghia is waiting. And a very orange 2020 Jetta is going to go introduce himself.
