It’s about time I paid some attention to one of the most formative elements of our culture, and I’m not referring to American Idol. If you had to choose what might have conceivably been one of the most important developments of the past 100 years or so, what would it be?

Sorry, no, not thong bathing suits. (You must be the half of my readers who is under 30.) And, no, not the sleep number bed. (You’re the other half, right?)

I am talking about cars. Automobiles. Those things with tires and budget-breaking appetites that we live in when we’re not at home. Hardly anyone in the world had ever heard of one, let alone seen one 110 years ago — since then they have transformed the world.

Here are some stories of the earlier days of the automobile, stories that will soon be wiped out in the historic passage of time. They’re gentle old stories, nothing spectacular, just like the times they come from. (Not counting warfare, of course. ) And if you’ve heard some before, be patient — someday you too will be old and reduced to babbling away about those early, impossibly long-gone days of the early Internet and Dancing with the Stars.

First, let me try to get across to you the different world we lived in with those cars of my youth.( Extreme youth, I mean, of course.) My family loved to take trips, and even just rides around the city every so often. (My dad favored Nashes, but my uncle believed ferociously in Studebakers, and the friendly rivalry between the two family choices pretty much puts in the shade any modern rivalries between Redskin or Dallas fans.)

Mother and Daddy sat in the front of course. My older brother sat on the driver’s side in the back, and my next oldest brother sat in back on the passenger side. Me? For years, from the age of three or so on, I sat BETWEEN THEM ON THE ARMREST. It goes without saying, no seat belts, of course, for me or anyone else. Well, yes, it was a big armrest (thanks for mentioning that) by today’s standards, but nevertheless surely I was subject to spilling off immediately at drastic slowdowns and sudden stops. Only I don’t remember once getting dumped, and I think I would.

At any rate, we can be sure that this placement led to many repetitions of that old family saying, “Oh, just ignore your (sister, brother, that monster in the backseat there with you.)”

Most of this time, my one brother was too short to see out the window so he spent all of his cartime standing up, leaning on the back of the front seat. Mother liked it that way — she could keep a sideways eye on him better than if he were tucked invisibly into the seat behind her. When they took a daring cross-country trip in 1934, (without me!) he stood all the way to California.

I got my license when I was 15. The police station had recently moved, and my dad wasn’t quite sure where it was. “There it is!” he shouted suddenly and I swerved off the road, only not soon enough to make it into the driveway. Instead I hit the brakes, stopped abruptly in the front yard, and (no seat belts) slammed into the horn, which went off like a fire siren. Every policeman in the place came out to see what the noise was about. After that, I did OK, except when it was time to park. My policeman dragged up (park!) benches to park between, and I knocked over the back one, and then the front one. He looked at me speculatively, and said, finally, “Well, this is my birthday, so I’m going to let you pass.” I hope he never regretted it. I never did.

If you’ve heard that from me before, did I ever tell you about our foggy night on the Lincoln Highway about 1939? The road could not be seen from the driver’s seat, so Mother walked along the highway with her hand on the fender, while Dad drove alongside watching her to figure out where the road was. Miraculously, we all made it home in one piece.

Mary Hensel had an aunt in Artemas who was even more clever. Her family was happily tooling around one night when the headlights failed, so she just got out, perched on the fender, and put her flashlight to good use, getting them back home safe and sound. Probably you wouldn’t be hearing any of these stories if they had not had happy endings.

But it is Betty Webster whose bitter-sweet story may put you in tears. Her father faithfully went out with a gun hunting deer every season and never got a one. Oh, that hurt! Then one fall Betty’s mother got into the car, drove over to West Virginia, and personally bagged a deer with her trusty Oldsmobile in the very first mile! Betty’s dad never got over it.

Of course, neither did Betty’s mother, and certainly not the deer.

Maude McDaniel is a Cumberland freelance writer. Her column appears in the Times-News on alternate Sundays.