Monday, July 02, 2007
Memories are the oddest things.
When I was a very little girl, my grandmother had an Oldsmobile convertible. (This was the same grandma who was a former flapper and tried to teach me to crochet three hundred times.) The convertible was a dark teal, with cream interior and rag top. See a resemblance? I dropped my knitting down in a big lump yesterday, and thought, holy cow, it's grandma's convertible.
After my grandmother drove it around for years (many years, beginning before I was born), she sold it to my dad, and my dad drove it until it eventually died a noble death in a car fire when I was maybe ten years old.
We took most of our early family trips in that car; Niagra Falls, Florida, all over the State of Ohio, to see family in Indiana. All of it was done, rocketing around in the convertible. In the summer, Dad would put the top down and we'd all pile in with our friends and cousins and go off to New Baltimore for home-made ice cream. In the back seat, on the floor, were small lights that I assume were to help people get in and out; when I was very small I remember laying on the floor in the dark, on a long trip, coloring with crayons by the light of the floor markers.
Ah, yeah, good stuff.
When I was a teenager, a friend of mine had another large, land-yacht type convertible, and we would do the same thing; drive around on summer Sundays with the top down, gathering up anyone who was home and going out for ice cream. My father said, years later, that he took great comfort in that - he figured if we were able to take such joy in the small things in life like ice cream on a Sunday afternoon, he worried a little less about us getting into big trouble.
Isn't it crazy how memory works?
at 11:41 AM