The family van, circa 1992, is parked in the driveway under a mound of snow. Technically it still works, but my son - after using it for his summer painting business and coating the inside with liberal lashes of paint - has left the van to live out its days as a driveway ornament.
This van has been through a lot, what with three kids virtually raised in it. I was in it so often, it felt like a second home. It even looked like a second home, seeing as it was always filled with bits of food and single shoes and the occasional pair of panties thrown on the floor. The Underpants Miscreant paid dearly, because I put the flowered panties on my head and drove through town with the window open, asking passersby for directions whilst my children huddled in the back.
There was the night the neighbour's cat crawled into the van as we unloaded groceries. He was there overnight. And he had a urinary tract infection. And the medication he was on gave him diarrhea. That's when we decided to upgrade, and we gave the car to our son. He was happy to have it, any set of wheels seemed like a good idea for a young teenage boy with a new licence. Until he started dating. Then he realized a family mini-van that smelled like a litter box wasn't exactly a chick magnet.
Then there was the apple I found under the seat. This recalcitrant fruit had been there for some time, through several freeze and thaw cycles. I prodded its swollen, bulging bottom, now resembling a tiny bean bag chair, ever so gently with my pinkie. The interior of the apple had liquified and was held together only by virtue of its tough skin (kind of like Mary Tyler Moore) so I had to be careful. Instinct, and past experience with delinquent juice boxes, told me that if I picked up this apple, there was only the RISK of detonation, but leaving it there meant that with just one tiny bump or sneaker kick, we would be looking at a cider explosion of epic proportions. Suddenly, the paint splotches looked benign, nay, positively Pollockesque by comparison.
Not having a fruit bomb squad at my disposal, I did what any rational person would do. I went out at night, scooped it carefully with a spatula and flung it onto the neighbour's yard. Payback for that car-jacking, incontinent cat.
p.s.
I'd take a photo of the van but my camera is broken.
What's that you say?
Your birthday is next month?
And your camera is broken?
Gosh.
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6 comments:
I have a side ache from laughing at this!!
Just what I needed after the drive in my '98 Caravan tonight, where the defrost/ airconditioner/ back windshield indicater lights decided to flash all the way home from Coquitlam.
I'll have to think up some fond memories of my van...after my wine :)
Does it still smell like Rosie too?
Hey Trudy, anyone who has owned a van has stories...
There was the rented van we drove to P.E.I. one summer, and the Strawberry Milkshake/French Fries/Toddler incident. I'm just saying, I'm happy it was a rental, but God help the next guy who got that van.
Oh Yutha, Rosie lives on in that van. I remember when I was still driving it and I picked up my girlfriend, who sat quietly for a few minutes and then said, "You have a dog, don't you?"
Like the windows slimed into an opaque film didn't give it away...
My car is completely covered in muddy footprints,all over the dashboard from a certain someone we all know and love. The lease company called today to set up an inspection for a return - I had to postpone it for a month so I can try to clean it up. It doesn't smell like dog though, so that's a plus....(although it does smell like Leah)
Yutha, I've smelled Leah. She smells better than Rosie ever did, or ever will.
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