193. Riding in Cars – Hollynn Huitt
The car was a 1976 Oldsmobile Delta. It was not pretty or sleek or cool. The air conditioning was broken, the radio didn’t work, and it inhaled gas.
The car was a 1976 Oldsmobile Delta. It was not pretty or sleek or cool. The air conditioning was broken, the radio didn’t work, and it inhaled gas. The paint job was a weather-dulled, blue-gray—the exact color I imagined a humpback whale would be, if I ever had the good fortune of seeing one up close. The car was almost impossibly wide, and the plush bench seats, which stretched uninterrupted the entire width of the interior, bounced beneath you comfortingly. To ride in it was to feel like you were in a heavy but buoyant boat, loose steering and all. My older brother and I were the Oldsmobile’s primary occupants, drifting to and from high school, where we were teased for driving an old jalopy. We didn’t care. We loved that car.
We had spent a lot of time in cars—in fact, when I think back, I automatically categorize my memories by whatever car we were driving at the time. My father was a mechanic, so, unlike my friends, whose families kept vehicles for years on end, our cars—the ‘80 Cadillac Eldorado with the bad transmission, the ‘95 Toyota Tacoma with the bent front axle—were never with us for longer than a few months.
All of our free time was spent either waiting in these cars—for my mother to finish grocery shopping, for my father to finish work—or riding in them. While waiting, the car was our playground or prison, depending on the day. We scrambled and climbed, we wrestled and listened to whatever came on the radio. We longed for snacks but didn’t get them; we laid down and napped. There were no phones, no CD players. There were books—thank god—but it seemed like they were always finishing right when I needed them most. While riding, there were arguments between my parents in the front seat, surreptitious hand-holding with middle-school boyfriends in the back, whole-car sing-a-longs to Pinball Wizard. It seemed like everything that mattered happened in cars.
My car today is a newer model, not particularly interesting: a reliable silver SUV with a black leather interior, big enough for kids and dogs and luggage. Yet often, when the day is stretching long before us, my young children and I climb into the parked car, and for an hour at least, they crawl over seats, lock and unlock doors, and surf static-softened radio stations. When it’s time to go somewhere, I strap them in, and we take off. We notice bald eagles and cement mixers, school buses and storm clouds. Maybe they are too young yet to remember, but I won’t forget how they look, safe in their car seats, eyes turned to the window, taking it all in.
– Hollynn Huitt
