Grandma Peggy drove a white VW Bug. I must have ridden in it mostly in the summer because I remember the feeling of that black vinyl on the back of exposed legs between where my shorts ended and the point where I could get my legs away from the seat.
Grandma would take us interesting places in her Bug, such as to visit a cousin we never knew or to see her fabulously stylish friends. Even a trip to the grocery store seemed exotic if we went with Grandma.
The back seat was small, just large enough for me and my sister, Anne Marie, but certainly not for my tall, skinny uncles, John the pony-tailed Harvard grad, and Dave, who probably drove the little car on dates with his girl friend.
The vinyl gave the car a distinctly pungent smell like a hot eraser after I had erased my mistakes in my first grade mathbook. The Bug was often parked in the shade of the sagey, velvety Russian olive tree on the South side of the driveway at my grandparents' house on Laird Way. Not that the shade made any difference to the heat inside the car. Being a marvel of German engineering, the car had its trunk in the front of the car and the engine in the back. Grandpa drove a Buick, which held no appeal over the style and form of the White Bug.
1 comment:
Wonderful! I felt like I was in the car with you! You have a gift with words!
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