My mother got a car in the summer of 1981. Since we were no longer living with my father she’s needed a reliable car of her own. I remember feeling at the time that the car shown below was a step down from my father’s car: partly because he wasn’t in it but mostly because it didn’t have an 8-Track player.
My lasting memory of this car is that discussion was always encouraged while we were driving unless a song my mother liked came on the radio. My mom could pick out the opening notes to a good song with amazing accuracy considering that she shared a car with three children 7 and under whose primary form of recreation was shouting. It was like she was tuned to a special frequency that only played her favorite songs and she could filter out the rest. One second we’d be yelling over the music and the next her hand would go up telling us that it was time to be quiet; it was time for music.
I don’t know where I’m thinking of going in this photo: I could be thinking of getting ice cream or I could be thinking of robbing a bank. This photo is not the last time I sat behind the wheel of a car thinking of making my getaway. For a long time I was always thinking of being somewhere else. Feeling certain that where I am is where I belong is a relatively new experience but one that I’m pretty happy about.