The incongruities of existence sometimes can’t be ignored. Hence the following photo:
Our son-in-law dropped by the other day in the little yellow truck, which was subsequently high-pooh-bahed by the creature in front of it.
The little yellow truck used to be the little red truck. As such, it was my car, and I drove much of Kansas in it — no air-conditioning, but a tape player which bellowed opera as I drove those isolated western Kansas highways . I drove it in my polly-professor clothes and in my Wyoming blue jeans. I felt tough in it and was proud when one of my Kansas English department colleagues remarked that he couldn’t believe that that was my mode of travel. Always good to confuse the natives.
It’s a 1982 Datsun. It was red when we moved to Portland, got painted yellow by my ex-son-in-law after I gave it to my daughter. And now she’s “loaned” it to her current housemate, who, working in construction, finds it a perfect vehicle for his lifestyle. It has a sweet little horn toot (Rick passed me yesterday near the Belmont Library and said “hi” with the horn) and runs beautifully. It still has no air-conditioning, the tape player died long ago, the body is getting close to serious rust-out, one of the doors can’t be opened from the inside, and riding in it rattles your eyeteeth. And yet it still runs and runs in the family.
And puts the monstrosity in front of it to shame. –June