My mother drove a 1962 black Thunderbird with red leather interior. It looked like this.
The car magically appeared after what seemed like years of scraping by, all of us working in our family’s dime store, eating a lot of bean soup and 29 cent chicken potpies. And then, boom, there’s this beautiful car. My dad didn’t do debt except for our house so he had to have paid cash for the car.
It didn’t hit me for years. My dad went out and paid cash for a black Thunderbird for my mother. What were the pieces in that puzzle? I never knew. Was there a story, an argument, a debt, a bribe, an apology, a vying, an attempt to get her attention, thank her, appreciate her, or was he just simply trying to make her happy?
My mother wasn’t an easy person to make happy. Her sadness was cellular…
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