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Goobermobile.
That’s how my wheels are described and I never had a clue. I only became
aware of my owning “Geezer Wheels” a year ago when, after parking our new
mini-van in front of the house, we visited our youngest daughter. She lives
in a Denver suburb. Jan and I hadn’t been there five minutes when the phone
rang. “No No” we heard her almost shout, “It belongs to my folks, no
really, I mean it, it’s not ours, it’s my parents.”
“What was that all about?” I inquired. “Oh” she mumbled with downcast eyes,
“Just our neighbor accusing us of buying a mini-van.” “So like we’re
supposed to park in front of the people next door?” I asked. “Oh it’s
okay,” was the reply “it won’t be here when you leave so everyone will know
it wasn’t ours.” And that’s when we learned the painful truth; in the eyes
of young America our new car had a very, very low “cool” coefficient.
Being totally being out of step with what’s “in” was made even more
abundantly clear not two weeks later watching a Jaguar motorcar ad on TV.
In the commercial a Jaguar was speeding through California’s Big Sur while a
deep voice announcer intoned, “Your guidance counselor said you would never
amount to anything” and then to make me most aware of where I stood in the
pecking order of life the announcer delivered the ultimate insult, “Your
guidance counselor drove a mini-van”.
I couldn’t have been more shocked if someone pointed out brown shoes don’t
go with a tuxedo. Me driving a geezer car? Oh I know about geezer cars.
Back in the last century when I was learning to drive my folks owned a
Buick. It was a big old boat with a Dynaflow transmission. That car could
go from zero to sixty in about a week. It was the worst. Not that I
complained to my parents because it was take the Buick or walk. But driving
that Buick in public, right out in front of God and everybody was so
traumatic that a half a century later I instinctively look away whenever I
see a Buick in spite of what Tiger Woods says. Seriously, even though Buick
pays Tiger a bazillion dollars a year are you convinced that when Eldrick
and his new Superswede wife head out on the town they’re riding in a Buick?
How is it possible that super cool me could wind up driving a un cool car?
Our house is the home of suave and debonair. All in the name of style the
pink flamingos have been removed from the front yard, the macramé plant
hangars are stored in the garage and we’re down to our last three Mel-mac
dishes. (Two coffee cups and a salad plate).
I love my mini-van. It gets twenty five miles to the gallon, climbs to the
Eisenhower tunnel at a speed that will get you a ticket, and can hold all my
toys from bikes to ski’s to roller blades to golf clubs and pull cart with
room for luggage.
So why does my mini-van have such a low “hip” factor? True it’s not, “Like a
Rock” nor does a gear head in a Skoal ballcap pull along side at a stop
light to inquire, “Has that bad boy got a hemi in it?” and no one ever
exclaims, “Hey your driving a mini-van, sweet!” But the kind of car a
guidance counselor would drive? Talk about a low blow. And no I’m not
worried about hurting the feelings of my high school guidance counselor.
Almost fifty years later he must by now be in heaven and still telling one
and all to either enlist in the Army or go to teachers college. Guess which
category he picked for me?
No matter what I love my mini-van. And it could be the perfect car for a
family with teen-age drivers. Because if they ask to borrow the car you’ll
be well aware of just how desperate they are for wheels. |
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