Sitting in the back of my dad’s much loved station wagon, my brother and I would arrange ourselves between the two pop-up seats that faced each other, knees interwoven, sometimes touching – “STOP IT!!” – the entire trip.
The old Ford Country Squire was a prized possession being, as it was, my dad’s first brand new car. Model year 1968, headlights covered by a grill that lifted up when the light power switch was turned on, faux wood paneling.*
It possessed a certain elegance if not self-awareness.
Mostly we’d ride on the weekends as my dad’s commute to the City gave him time during the week for little more than working, commuting, sleeping. But those summer weekend trips often included a Sunday visit to the local beach where we’d romp for a bit and smell the ocean air. Then a quick stop on the way home at the local Carvel ice cream shop (for those who aren’t familiar with that name, I’m truly sorry). Sometimes, in the reverse, we’d start at Carvel.
My dad held on to that old car until well after it was no longer practical to own, what with repairs and insurance and the limited space at the new home some two hundred miles away.
But its memories weren’t sold for scrap value as its body eventually was. And I still remember the lingering smell of that brand new purchase, what it cost, the dealership where we got it, and the fun times that we had as a family.
And my brother and I knee-fighting for more room in the back.
Every single time.
Copyright (TZampino) 2020
* Ours Was Blue But This Was The Exact Model: 1968 Ford LTD Country Squire (Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons )
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