hey, nice car!

So Anderson Cooper is coming to speak on Friday, and the bookstore staff are organizing his book signing and hanging out at the reception, which meant that I was running around today papering all the local coffeehouses with charming photos of his dreamy face. When I came out of the last one (my usual hangout, but I wasn't in the mood for coffee this evening with the weather turning rough), a couple of guys were standing on the sidewalk looking at my car.

"Nice car!" said one of them. "That an '81?"
"'83!" I said.
"Nice," he said again, nodding sagely.
"Thanks," I said, and got in and drove away.

Funny thing is, that happens fairly frequently. People who own Volvos like my car a lot. There are a few around town of about the same vintage, big old station wagons with peeling bumper stickers. The other day, I saw one on my way to the gym, and the driver had her window rolled down, so I said, "Nice car!" and she grinned as she went on her way. It's kind of like being in a cult. A cult dedicated to vaguely retro things. If we ever had a meeting, we should probably wear bellbottoms and serve that cheese dip made out of Velveeta. And talk about the latest literary novel, of course. We're Volvo owners.

Lots of people are fond of their cars, sure, but I love my car more than most, I feel. It's been in the family since before I was born, as you can see: Mom bought it new and we've had it ever since. It's two years older than I am, and apart from the occasional cosmetic bit falling off, it runs pretty much like a dream, albeit a dream that is sometimes interrupted by the transmission falling out (hyperbole). For a car that spent a long time in coastal states, the paint job's still pretty good. She's been fairly well-maintained over the years (I suppose only having one owner helps with that, as most Volvos of that era have been bought several times). Of course, it's nicer from the outside. And once you get in, it's hard to get out, since the doors don't much work. But I love it anyway.

The Volvo is the car I grew up in. It's the car I came home from the hospital in. It's the car I learned to drive in (mostly). It is my fat-bottomed car. So there are no air bags and no air conditioning. The heater still works really well, which is a plus, and I've learned how to wedge my coffee mug between the parking brake and the passenger's seat, so everything's groovy, except it could use a radio. I cruise around town with my windows rolled down bellowing Sara Bareilles and gathering all sorts of indie cred. Plus she's easy to find in the parking lot, and no one would ever want to steal her.

Someday (soonish) the Volvo will probably cease to function normally, but knock on wood, that day's a few years off. I know I'll miss her when she's gone.