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.