After this long, cold winter, I find myself in a delightfully warm, invigorating spring with a fever I cannot contain.

I’ll explain.

I have a distinct memory of toddling into a car dealership on Park avenue in Worcester in the spring of 1950 to a showroom chockablock full of Willys Overland vehicles. My parents were buying the big, boxy station wagon Willys, but my eyes were drawn to the shiny red Willys roadster convertible and the handsome, stalwart black pickup. I loved the convertible. And I remember whining, begging, pleading, in my three-year old voice, for my parents to buy the convertible.

They bought the big, boxy, gray Willys and drove it 100,000 miles, until it finally died in 1960.

In high school I inherited my aunt’s 1947 Plymouth coupe, basic black with backdoors that opened backwards. I loved that car and drove it for years.

Over the next few decades I had a couple of Volkswagen bugs, a camper, then a pair of diesel Rabbits: On one I logged 125,000 miles and the other I drove a quarter million miles. Driving is what it was all about. My last new car was a 1994 Geo Prizm/Corolla, which I drove into the ground, logging 275,000 miles. It was still getting over 30 miles to the gallon when the exhaust system died last year.

When we Skyped my daughter last week to say I had suffered a midlife crisis, my wife quickly added it was not another woman. Amy immediately asked: “What kind of car did you get?” Does she know me that well or do I wear my automotive fervor on my sleeve?

I began to fish around for an old Jeep, the Willys Overland Roadster, produced from 1948 through 1950, with an overflow into 1951. It was Willys’ attempt to commercialize the general purpose vehicle, GP, the Jeep, known as the workhorse of World War II. I sought the popular version, known as the Jeepster, with a ragtop, three on the tree and not much more. Fewer than 20,000 vehicles were produced, so each one is a find.

People talk up eBay, so it wasn’t long before I, too, was drawn to that site, and quickly found myself in a bidding war for a car in Rhode Island that seemed to meet my needs. Strange to say, my wife did not question my interest in a new car. Does she like the idea of a convertible? Does she, too, crave an antique auto? Does she have more confidence than I, in my ability to change the spark plugs or patch a scratch on the fender? Not sure, but we both anticipate the eventual purchase of said vehicle.

There are a few sticking points. The title is not clear. The car did not start when I checked it out. It has no brakes. But these issues are minor compared to the eventual possibility of actually owning and driving around the Vineyard in an original Jeepster.

Now I’m contemplating vanity plates, booking rides for friends. What about a sound system? Should I have it painted daffodil yellow or shiny red? Where will I stow my Island car in the off-season? What have I got myself into? Somehow, it just feels right.

My midlife chassis is something sassy, as West Tisbury’s poet laureate Dan Waters points out. And I get the last word with my parents: I knew what I wanted, it just took me 60-something years to get it.

Gazette contributor Tom Dresser lives in Oak Bluffs.