My family holiday gatherings were really more like car shows. Grandpa would stand at the kitchen window, staring down the gravel road.“Here comes Jerry. He got him a new Ford Fairlane.”Five minutes later,“There’s Clara. She went and bought one of them fancy Chrysler New Yorkers.”One by one, the extended family members would pull into the long drive. Somehow, the cars had remained shiny in spite of trekking through gravel.
We could actually view the driveway from the dinner table, and the conversations revolved around questions like:“Did you trade in the Cordoba?”“What kind of mileage does she get?”“Have you seen the new Buick?”Afterwards, in a fine display of stereotypical gender roles, the women would do dishes while the men popped hoods, kicked tires and revved engines.
When I got my first car (a 1978 T-bird), I immediately drove to my grandparents’ house to show it off. Grandpa approved, and I was content.
As hubby signed the papers for his new pickup truck, the salesman said, “I think you will be happy with this purchase. Honestly, I’ve never sold anything in burnt orange to a man.”Yeah, it’s sexist, but I’m letting it slide this time because whenever hubby pulls into the drive, my heart goes thump. Now, if I could just get him to dab a bit of motor oil behind his ears.
Ginger Truitt is an author, speaker and mother of five. Find her on Twitter (@GingerTruitt), online at www.gingertruitt.com, or contact her at email@example.com.