Mom was a Honda girl. Always was, always would be. She spent her initial years driving a variety of shed-built Volkswagens, which would promptly have a major failure, which would promptly be dragged back home to get a motor swap. The regularity of this business got to the point where my Uncle Mike, her brother, can still pull and replace a motor in about twenty minutes, but I digress.
Somewhere along the line, Mom, or Robin at the time, needed a new car, and found herself in a Honda dealership. After approaching every vehicle with scrutiny, and likely yelling at the salesman (though she would never admit it), she bought herself the first-generation Honda Civic, a lovely black (they were almost always black) three-door with AM radio, Power Disc Brakes, and more than enough frugality with fuel to ease her own personal gas crisis.
Somewhere in that little hatch, a love affair started, that would only be foolishly interrupted once by a GMC. As time went on, so did that little Honda, to the