for Helly

I never wanted to learn how to drive. Putting myself behind the wheel of a big chunk of metal and then intentionally making it move at high speeds seemed like a very bad idea to me. I was almost eighteen before I attempted it and it still seemed a very bad idea. I was pregnant, about to be married and needed to be able to get to work and back. My dad took me out to the desert in a '69 Rambler Rebel and tried to teach me to drive. My dad is a very patient man, but I think I may have given him a fit or two or ten.

My parents gave me the Rebel and I loved it. It was a tank. No matter what I ran into, the car emerged without damage. I can't say the same for the object it ran into! I ran over signs, a fence, curbs and did serious damage to a local car wash. When I left home with my husband some months later to move to Tennessee, he drove.

My next car was a Geo Metro in Jacksonville, Florida. I know what you're thinking. But this was when they first came out and it was brand new, a shiny piece of teal candy. I was in love. The only problem was that it was a standard. I got on the phone with my dad and he taught me to drive it, one call at a time. I didn't understand shifting and couldn't hear the engine 'talking' to me. I had little notes taped to my dashboard: 0-15, 1st; 15-25, 2nd; 25-35, 3rd; drive in 4th. I must have driven around our block two hundred times. Always to the right. I still do that today. Sometimes I go a mile out of my way just to be able to turn to the right because those left-handed turns against traffic? Not for me! Those people who turn left without a protected arrow? CRAZY!

Life goes on and stuff happens. There were a series of vehicles. The only one I felt any affection for was my big red Ford pickup, but I don't want to talk about that because we parted badly.

Mike and I had an ugly blue van with seating for eight. When I found out I was pregnant with Echo, we started looking for something bigger. The only thing bigger is a passenger van ~as in day care transport, or airport shuttle, or prison transfer. There is a used car lot in town that always has a wide variety of vehicles. Right on the corner was a shiny, lime green car. She called to me and I wanted her. I wanted her BAD. Mike and I stopped to look at her: '73 Mercury Comet, 26,000 original miles, good interior, great engine. I tried to talk him into it. I had never wanted a car like I wanted this one. She was completely impractical but so beautiful. She looked like she wanted to be a hot rod, but with four doors who would take her seriously? I understood that feeling. I have always been a four door myself, if you know what I mean.

We ended up buying a vehicle at that lot, but it wasn't her. We purchased the van we have now, a 12 passenger van built for abuse.

It was Easter and we spent the holiday at my mother's house. Mike couldn't come because he had to work. When I got home, I found her in the driveway. My car! I always thought of her as a great big shiny Easter egg. The story doesn't end there...

I took the paperwork to the DMV to get her registered and the woman behind the counter inspected the title. "Any relation?" "Excuse me?" "Any relation? You both have the same last name. Are you related?" "No. I bought the car at a used car lot."

When I got home, I told Mike about it. He did a little checking around and it turned out we WERE related. The car had belonged to his father's brother. No one knew about it because it had been kept covered in a garage. When his uncle died, his aunt decided to sell it to get some extra money.

I almost never drive her. I don't want the kids to make a mess inside or break anything. But it makes me happy to look out there and see her.

We have had an offer for a trade. My brother in law wants to trade the Comet for his van. It is a 15 passenger and much nicer than ours. It has AIR CONDITIONING! We will probably have to trade. The kids are more important than the luxury of looking at something pretty I never use.

But I still love her.



originally posted at kristyk.org

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