My first car was an El Camino

My first car was an El Camino. Seventeen-year-old me drove across town taking up every inch of my lane. There was no hiding even in a two-seater cab. This giant of a ride, with its Texas-sized truck bed, rolled right over my desire to be small. 

The paint was a two-tone blue--maybe fancy when it was new, but when my Dad handed me the keys, rust was creeping over the hood. If memory serves, my parents gave me the go-ahead to add the third tone--more sky than robin's egg-- over the dimpled metal. This was one of many times they said yes to the paintbrush. Squinting did nothing to improve its looks, but what a personality.

I remember the mulch. My industrious parents spent their weekends tending the yard. In my recollection, though, I carried a 3-foot pile to school every single day. When I picked up speed on the highway, I'd spot a spray of soil in my review mirror. Drivers, beware of the girl in the El Camino. 

Later, the car became my first canvas for a protest sign. A friend was suspended from our Catholic school for one whole day. I don't recall his crime as much as I recall the oppressive dean of discipline, Colonel LeFevre, who stored a 100-sheet stack of demerits in his chest pocket. One evening, a few of us in a Bible study asked ourselves what Jesus would do in the face of injustice. The result was rolling broadside with the words, "Free Matt McMahon. Stick it to the chicken!" Then, I parked my gargantuan heap in the Colonel's parking space.

My Mom didn't falter, which says a lot about her. Not only did she send her shy daughter off into the wild world in an absurd set of wheels, but she also answered the Colonel's call with feminist pride. 

"She did what?" she inquired smiling unbeknownst to the martinet on the line. "Of course, I'll talk to her."

In car heaven, that El Camino is home to a garden that grows to this day.