My seventeen-year-old German vehicle,
practical, sweet to drive, timeless
in design - a box, really, is resurrected
with a modern Japanese engine,
finally sorted out by the Russian.
It now has gobs of power, and though
I should be attentive of the tranny and
breaks as well, I am reacting as if it is
Christmas. It is sweet to sleep in
under the stars peeking through branches.
It rides high and looks down the road
invitingly. I could do the whole country
in it, following the sun, seeing how they
live in New Orleans, or just take it to fill
up down the street at Albertson's.
I must get it all gussied up, slap some
Bondo in the dents and slick it over with
paint, get better tires to bop down the
road with Billy Joel or Glen Gould, or
Bob Marley. Lordy, it's sweet.
Maybe I should name it. Light My Fire?
Joey? Whitey, maybe? Big Guy? Hell
this will take some thought. It's only a
car, for God's sake. I need to be practical,
stop thinking about it when I'm not in it.
So here's to all the world! May everyone
have a Vanagan and feel as good about
it as I do. May there be gatherings of
happy drivers under pretty trees with talk of
their goodness and our affection for them.