I blame my father. I blame
him because it is popular to blame your father. Because he is in heaven I know
he doesn't care. And because I think it really is his fault; however, I am an
adult and so I now state openly, “My name is Tricia S., and I like cars.”
Growing up
my dad always pointed out the fun, fancy, and unique cars, starting with, “I
would give my eye teeth to have that…” Later I realized those cars cost more
than eye teeth, which is probably why dad spent most Saturdays in the garage
fixing our own “Rolls Can’ardly”, (Rolls down the hill and can 'ardly get up
the other.) My brother and I spent our Saturdays banned from the garage because
Dad was speaking a language we were forbidden to learn. Though I didn't learn the language (from dad),
I was infected with the love for cars.
Doug’s
father also loved cars but Doug didn't get the bug. He likes a car that will
work and get him from point A to point B in the least expensive way. When I started dating Doug he had brown Chevy
Chevette. Remember the ads for those
cars? "Chevy Chevette, it will
drive you happy.” They really were
thinking there, it was a car that could drive you crazy and they must have been
trying to subliminally warn people. We
fondly knew it as Dimples, because it survived a Colorado hailstorm - proof
that I didn’t marry Doug for his car.
Understanding
our attitudes toward cars you can appreciate Doug's great love for me when he
rented for me a red Mustang convertible one beautiful Colorado week.
We had been in Slovakia for four
years and returned to the US for a year that can only be described to the
general public as the year of torture.
It was the year my dad died, my grandma died, my mom lost her voice for
months, Ryan had emergency surgery and 4 bouts with pneumonia, etc.
We travelled around the States in
a car that had to be started by two people - one turning the ignition and one
spraying flammable starter fluid directly in the carburetor. While the first person gunned it, the second
person had to reinstall the air filter and close the hood. This made some interesting opportunities to
meet people when I went out with my toddlers.
The next
fall, back in Slovakia in the midst of daily tears, Doug would ask me what I
needed. Since nothing came to mind right
away I would often say, a red convertible. I just need to drive one for ONE
day-but not here, in the rain.
The next
summer we were back in the States arranging estate work from my dad and grandma
and taking the vacation we hadn't had the years before. That's when Doug decided I should have the car.
I can't
describe how glorious it was. We bought
some fun CD's, like Beach Boys Greatest Hits.
My niece, then age three, would
ask to take a ride with me in my "hot car." I think she really
thought we meant heat because in the Colorado sunshine, those in the back seat really
did bake. Those in the front were fine; I turned the air conditioner on full
and enjoyed the ride.
I still
have never owned my own car, but I had one more experience that was glorious
fun. One summer in South Carolina we
were offered a car to borrow. They gave
us a choice, the Buick or the new Dodge Ram truck. What could I say, they were already being
generous to loan us any car? But as we arrived at the airport, there was the
beautiful Dodge Ram and they handed us the keys. Doug drove home but it was almost the only
time he drove it those weeks.
What is it
about cars and music? For some reason
Dan Fogelberg and Classical seemed to go better with the truck, but that is
probably just me.
As we met
with the couple for dinner to thank them for the use of the car, our friend
asked Doug how he liked it. Doug said it
rode nicely but I had done most of the driving.
The friend burst into laughter, he had just told his class that Doug was
getting in touch with his masculine side by driving the Ram. What he didn't know was that it was really me
who was getting in touch...
