A Bit from the Archives

I dug up a bit of writing from probably 6 years ago. This is something I wrote during class for an assignment I call "dada writing." The prompt involves the students writing a single word apiece on the whiteboard and then spending five or six minutes writing "anything" as long as they use at least one of the volunteered words on the board. The words that stuck with me were: obituaries, tortoise, and twirl. Et Voila!

I spotted my old Toyota in the obituaries. It had been a happy tortoise of a car, slow and steady always got to where we needed to go.
I learned how to drive in that car and impressed people because it was a stick shift.
I was happy that no one else had a car like it in town. Quirky as all first cars must be, the steering wheel shuddered at any speed over fifty. I could put the pedal to the metal and, with a encouraging cheer muttered under my breath, hope to make it up a steep hill without annoying people behind me. The flat dash was home to several Beanie Babies whose fur turned rust-colored from the sun. For whatever reason, the two front seats were always covered in fake sheepskin.
I sold it for a car six years younger and with a speedometer that went up to 140. But the Toyota had taken a tumble a week ago, lost brake fluid and twirled into a ditch just outside of Cass Lake. The hood flipped off and the roof caved in, nearly killing its passengers. Sweet revenge, I thought, after all the abuse it’s taken in its life. It is survived by photos after a nice wash, and by memories of late night trips home from work with no radio.

I still think of that car every now and then, mostly of any work I put into it, the two times some jerk broke into it and stole something of pawn value, and my driving lessons with Dad. I trembled at the end of each session in the industrial park, breathing a sigh of relief as I handed the keys back to Dad. And once we were outside the safety of the empty concrete jungle, how fast anything over 30 seemed! These days, I seldom feel "the need for speed," and I always keep in mind one of Dad's famous cheesy lines: you can always afford to pay attention. Thanks, Papa!