Yesterday, you had a heart attack. It was touch and go. But when morning came, you were still with us. Death came through the front door, unannounced, pointed at you and said "you're coming with me." You bitch slapped Death back through the front door, slammed it in his face and said "not yet". Thanks for sticking around, Pop...
Yesterday, I finally bit the bullet and changed out the duct tape upholstery on the driver's seat of my Chevy suburban for something a bit more practical. One of my son's immediate reactions was not surprising: "Dad, why do you keep pouring money into that piece of crap??" Why indeed. On the one hand, he was right. The car has 235,000 miles on it. It has more dents from bar parking lot encounters than I can count. It gets shitty gas mileage. And sometimes the smells that arise from 25-year-old carpeted floor mats could gag a maggot. Why @indeed .
And then I told him why.
Because I raised six kids in that car. That 235,000 miles represents some of the best years of my life. Endless road trips throughout Canada, the Pacific Northwest and California. Driving them to school every day. Packing hockey gear into the back and driving two hours in the dark to some small, frozen hockey rink in a tiny, southern Alberta town, or to a soccer tournament in British Columbia. And because when I get in that rig today, all the laughter and singing and questions come flooding back down through the years. And their little spirits are whirling and swirling around in the car, keeping me company on the road trips I now take alone these days. I will drive this car until the wheels fall off.
The great author Norman McLean was haunted by the rivers he fly-fished in Montana as a younger man. I am haunted by a beat up 2001 Chevy suburban. And I wouldn't have it any other way…
