My dad brought my mom and me home in style on the day I was born. My dad had a green 1939 Chevy sedan (he bought it new) that looked like the image; we had this car until I was about eight years old, so I have a clear memory of it. My dad called it the “Green Hornet,” which pretty well infringed on the comic book character for anyone growing up at the time. Here I am, decades later, and I’m still able to smell the inside of that car. I suppose this because my sister threw up in the back seat, and it never faded; the seats were covered with a light tan, fuzzy, carpet-like fabric. One puke and it was there forever.
Each summer, we’d all pile into the car for our trek to Yosemite for a camping vacation. My mom hated every single second of these camping expeditions, especially when we’d pull over to let the car radiator cool off, and we’d try to take a drink of our not-so-cool water from the bag. I hear her voice asking why we didn’t stop at that Standard Oil station and not on the side of the hot roadway. I sure wish I had that stupid canvas bag today.
Are we there yet? 