Radio Diaries: Convertibles

May 15, 2017

A young man cruises past me in his convertible with the top down and I’m supposed to be impressed.  I’m supposed to say, “Oh, wow, that is SO cool.  I wish I had a boyfriend with a convertible.”

But I don’t say those things because I had a father with a convertible.  Harold Anderson was the most conservative man imaginable except for his car.  He always drove a late-model Buick convertible in metallic blue or canary yellow.

Every weekend he polished the chrome with a chamois cloth and took our family for a ride.  My father and mother sat in the front seat, of course, and my brother and I sat in the back.

It was in the back seat that the romance of the convertible began to break down.  For the first few minutes it was fun; after that was just windy—blindingly, constantly windy.  During the day it was hot and at night it was cold.

One night, in fact, my brother and I got so cold we crouched down on the floor behind the front seats and waited for Dad to notice we were missing from view.  He never did.

So I wave at the young man cruising past with the top down.  I know all the myths about convertibles.  I also know the truth.