Cars

There's been an ongoing debate in our household about the coolness factor of my car.

An old Buick. This one in tarnished silver.

When I was in high school, my friends and I dreamed of the sporty car we would drive once we made it big. This might've been a direct result of driving, well, junk. (Sorry, parents!) If I was lucky I'd get to drive my mother's Chevy Citation, but that wasn't the norm. The ugliest car I ever drove was my dad's 68 Buick. Gold. Not shiny gold. I'd say it was more like tarnished gold. Not only was that beast an eyesore, but it held a kindly aroma of Dad's cigars. When carpooling to school, Dee Dee and I decided it would be best to park behind the school, away from the main lot to avoid pity stares. Dee Dee had her own car problems. While her sister got to drive a cute little Monza, she was given the indestructible, monstrous, LTD – also in... gold. If we were going out for the night and it was her turn to drive, she'd make me take the wheel. I understood. We all felt the same bit of shame over those junk cars that our fathers insisted had character. And it wasn't always about the appearance of the cars that gave us fits! There was always that fearful element of breaking down. One night we were out driving in Lyn's old Monte Carlo (definitely one of the nicer cars) when we heard a horrible screeching sound. She put the car in park and said, "Hold on a sec." She popped out, and in a few minutes she popped back in with the culprit in hand. "Tailpipe anyone?"

It makes me laugh now. Maybe it was sort of a dad strategy to keep away boys.  Nevertheless, driving an old car was motivating! Nicole always made us drive with the windows down, practicing for the day we owned our convertibles. It was a certainty that we would eventually drive convertible sports cars. I had my heart on the IROC-Z. Any color would do.

I've driven a number of cars since my high school days. The Cutlass Calais which required jumper cables for every start. The Buick Skylark with its fancy digital speedometer that made this Kirkman girl feel like a million bucks. The Grand Am. My first new car out of college. I loved that sporty, red thing with the spoiler. Of course, I almost ruined it by bottoming out on my boyfriend's parents' long, gravel lane that would eventually become our own long, gravel lane. Oh, there's been so many! The metallic green blazer that 2-year-old Alex loved so much she cried when we traded it in. The Dodge Van whose smell of death hardly offset its convenience. And all those small cars we bought when we had the urge to save on gas.

Here's the funny thing? I don't remember ever shopping, or even considering shopping, for a Camaro. Definitely not a convertible.

Convertible Porsche would be fine.

A few weeks ago my parents asked Doug and I to accompany them to a fundraising event that sponsored an auto show. (My dad was asked to bring two of his motorcycles.) We thought it'd be fun. And it was! What we didn't expect? To fall in love! Oh, those classic cars with their vivid salmon and turquoise paint jobs! Some the size of a large whale! Some the size of a broom closet. It was surreal to be in a lot full of cars that weren't all homogenous, white SUVs. Part of me thought... maybe our fathers were on to something in high school.

Doug preferred this one.

Our kids don't really understand the lessons learned from driving old cars. I'm sure they think they have old cars even though both of their rides are less than 10 years. But they've never "rolled" down a window or only listened to an AM radio. And despite the luxury of their Focus and Fusion, I still hear them mention the appeal of Mustangs and Chargers. And, oh yes, Teslas.

Now, I drive a Chevy Traverse.  A white one. Beyond the general family-truckster-ness of its shape, I've glorified it a bit with my Iowa Hawkeye license plate labeled: KRAMFAM. In all truthfulness, it really is my favorite. And it will remain my favorite at least until kid #2 graduates from college and has his own car insurance. Maybe, just maybe, there will be room on our insurance plan for that convertible. In the meantime, I'll be prepare myself by driving the Traverse, windows down.

A Ferrari would be too ostentatious on the farm.