A cluster of bright orange leaves still clung to a tree alongside the road. Colorful fallen leaves driven by a brisk October breeze swirled across the road. I loved autumn. As I drove I happily thought about the colorful decorations I wanted to put up in my new two bedroom 12’ by 52’ Shult mobile home, and about making special holiday meals and treats for my new husband.

Arnie and I married early in the spring of 1970. Now, months later, with a baby on the way, I still felt surprised by my sudden catapult into adulthood. I was happy with these changes in my life, and I loved my husband, a broad shouldered, handsome, dark-haired man. The car I was driving home from my 20-week obstetrical clinic visit was the navy, 1966 Chevrolet Impala Arnie owned when we first met. Like him, it was good-looking.

A popular song I liked began to play on the car radio, so I turned up the volume. Actor Lee Marvin’s deep, raspy voice tunefully drawled, “I was born under a wandering star.” This song was unusual and had an appealing, but melancholic tone which fascinated me. “Snow can burn your eyes, but only people make you cry. Home is made for coming from, for dreams of going to…which with any luck will never come true.”

Just as Lee Marvin sang the words, “Do you know where hell is? Hell is in hello.” I hit a pothole in the road and the car jarred violently. The car instantly shut down: the radio, heater fan, motor and lights were all gone. There was no coasting to the side of the road: the car was dead in the center of the city street. This had happened a few nights previously when I was with Arnie. He had looked under the hood where he found the wire on the battery connection had popped off and made the fix look easy.

   Would fixing it be easy for me? I slid my eighteen-year-old body out from behind the steering wheel, very conscious of how my pregnancy was making me bigger than I was accustomed to being. I had watched my husband fix the problem, so hopefully I would be able to do the same. After gingerly returning a wire to the battery terminal, the headlights came on. Moments later when I turned the ignition key, the motor roared to life.

Hearing certain songs often makes people remember a small flash of something they were once doing while it was playing. Although many years have passed since I was a newlywed, just hearing “I was born under a wandering star’ by Lee Marvin makes that time of my life all come rushing back to me. For me the memory isn’t just a flash. This song invokes an entire movie track of that stage in my life! As if watching a home movie, I see how very young Arnie and I were. I recall the joy and thrill each new experience brought me during that first year of marriage. It was as if colors were more colorful; and music had more meaning.

The song Lee Marvin sang was from the movie soundtrack, ‘Paint Your Wagon’ and the character he played was that of prospector, Ben Rumson, a man who didn’t want to settle down. He sang, “Wheels are made for rolling, mules are made to pack. I’ve never seen a sight that didn’t look better looking back.”

Unlike Ben Rumson who didn’t want to settle down, in 1970, I craved settling down. I had graduated from high school and met my husband the year before. We married the following spring, bought a mobile home, and now had a baby on the way. Arnie and I were rushing into adulthood full throttle.

While driving the 1966 Impala that day, I wondered how some people could feel restless, as if born under a wandering star. I felt the star I was born under was drawing me towards family, home, and stability.