Longtime readers of this column might recall my penchant for writing about cars. During my decades as a college-educated chauffeur I practically lived in the family jalopy, and if you’ve raised kids in this modern age, I’m sure you can relate. When my glory days of active child-rearing were over, I quite understandably wanted to downsize.
“Honey,” I said to The Yorkshire Lad one day over our tea and crumpets, “I need a smaller car.”
“You have a smaller car,” he pointed out reasonably. “Baby Sube is much smaller than the station wagon or the van.”
“It’s not small enough. It has four doors and could still be interpreted as a Mom Car. I want a two-door car.”
So I tied on my poke bonnet and we went down to our neighborhood luxury used car lot.
“Look at that red Mercedes convertible!” I squealed. The dealer shoehorned my very tall husband into the passenger seat and we took it for a spin. That was when I discovered that convertibles were actually pretty darn noisy when the top was up, which would be most of the time in the Land of Clouds and Rain. Also, there was no back seat.
“I thought you didn’t WANT a back seat, so there wouldn’t be any room for the kids,” Himself pointed out reasonably. As was his wont.
“True,” I said. “But I need a BIT of a back seat, otherwise there will be no place to put my shopping bags.”
Then I spotted the Carerra. After laying down three credit cards, my first-born child’s birth certificate, and my lucky rabbit’s foot charm, I was allowed to take this one for a spin. It was not a convertible and had a bit of a back seat, just big enough for shopping bags. And the driver’s seat was a revelation. It was the most comfortable driver’s seat I’d ever been in. My back felt like a dream.
“Honey, I have to buy this car,” I said. “It doesn’t make my back hurt!”
I make a lot of friends as I tool around in my little roadster. I have stoplight conversations, and parking lot conversations, and sidewalk conversations. Just lots of conversations. And I hear a lot of stories, which is a good thing for a writer, which is making me think I should ask my accountant if any of this could be tax-deductible as a business expense. One thing I get asked about is the color. I get asked about the color all the time. This is the main question I get asked, by all the people I meet. The manufacturer calls it “lime gold metallic,” but what does the manufacturer know? Nothing! It’s obviously butterscotch. People ask me, and I tell them, and they agree. “Lime gold?” they say. “Pshaw!”
Judy was my mother’s baby sister, born when she was fourteen. Bitten by the sailing bug early in life, she spent all her spare time outdoors on the water. When she was in college, she bought me a very elaborate Barbie dream house-type contraption, complete with closets full of clothes, for Christmas. I was probably all of three years old, way too young for such a toy, but I was agog and adored her from that moment on. As I got older there were lunches, museum visits, dinner and the theater. She never had children of her own, but later in life, did get married, and to another avid sailor. She and George took long trips around the Great Lakes in their 28-foot Catalina, but back home in Chicago they were always ready to take me and my date du jour out for a sail, ending with a burger dinner prepared on a tiny, rail-mounted Weber grill. Nothing tastes better than a meal al fresco!
Judy died in a cruel way, and too young, locked in her body and frustrated. When we wheeled her outside at the nursing home to sit in the fresh air, she complained indignantly: “These old people! They just sit around all day!” That’s when she could still get words out. The last time I saw her, she couldn’t even hold a spoon, so I fed her while I looked into her eyes, nourishing us both.
Judy made this car possible. I named it after her so she could be free, and I named it after her so we could enjoy the liberation together. On every trip she rides along, usually with the window open; sailors like a nice breeze. When I fly along I-84 in Idaho behind the wheel of Miss Judy Butterscotch, I know my aunt is sitting beside me, smiling and trailing her fingers in the air. Judy is my co-pilot.