With four kids, we always needed a big car. We had station wagons in 1957, 1963, and 1971. We often took off for the weekend, towing a camp trailer loaded to the hilt with fishing gear and sleeping bags, and with a 14-foot boat perched on the top of the car.
In our teen years, the family tired of camping and we got rid of the trailer, and any need for a car big and strong enough to pull it. A Marquee Brougham was our next “family car.” It was like driving a tank, or maybe a boat, the way it handled our little suburban roads.
But in 1976, with all but one of us kids out of high school, Mom decided she wanted to get a car that really spoke to her. One not so much for function as for fun. She wanted something with a little pizazz and style and class. (She was 45, so call it a midlife crisis if you must.)
I was with her when she saw the car she wanted on dealership lot and went in and made a deal for it on the spot without even consulting Dad! I drove the Marquee home, and she drove her new Thunderbird— canary yellow with gold side panels and a buff vinyl top.
Never mind what my father said. Never mind that he tried to take the car back and they refused to cancel the deal Mom had made. The only thing that’s important here is that Mom dearly loved that car— and that the gigantic, gaudy, gorgeous vehicle sitting in her driveway made her happy just to look out the window at it.
(So this is where I get it… Car love is genetic!)
A month ago, I had never, ever, seen another car like that one. But there I was, driving east on I-84, when I suddenly decided to make a pit stop in Hood River. And there it was—“Mom’s Pimpmobile” in the Starbucks parking lot! I quickly pulled in and got out and used my phone to take pictures from every angle.
It never occurred to me to ask the man driving where he’d bought the car, or if he thought it was a one-of-a-kind, or any other questions. They weren’t necessary. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was another unmistakable sign.
I saw that car early in the morning the day after my birthday. And all the previous day I’d been missing Mom and talking about her, and deeply feeling her loss. So naturally, she sent me the car sighting—something I couldn’t possibly miss—to tell me she’s still with me, and always will be.
Thanks, Mom. Message received.