Not just a Sunday drive

When I was in college, I owned a 1990 convertible Mustang. It looked similar to this picture, except the body was baby blue. I have never been into cars, nor have I been since this baby was totaled on a beautiful October afternoon in 1994.

I loved that car. My dad bought it, washed it, hid it in my great grandparents' carport, and surprised me on Christmas morning. He was more pleased than I was to see me drive off in my robe with my pajama-clad brother Jud as my first passenger. (Shhh. . .is it still too early to tell that Jud actually told me about my surprise on Christmas Eve?)

In college, I thought my life was overwhelming a lot of the time. (Wow. . .if I only knew, huh?) My classes, quizzes, social events, boy troubles, Pi Phi t-shirt choices, being late for the Campus Bus, and blind date fiascos (Have you ever been dumped at a social for the picture girl? Ugh!)just totally put me over the edge sometimes. When those days came (and they came quite a lot, now that I think about it) I got in that car named Rhoda, and I drove. (Please tell me that you watched Rhoda!)

I rolled the windows down, pushed back the ragtop, and drove through Watkinsville, Bishop, Farmington, and into Madison, Georgia. I cruised through "downtown" Madison until I located my friend and landscaper, Tate. When I found him at the local McDonald's spreading mulch, I parked my car and got out to put my hands in the dirt and forget about everything else.

Though the landscaping, socializing, and manual labor were all very therapeutic, it was the drive that was always my favorite part.

This evening I am wishing for a ragtop, a scarf in my hair, an old country road, and cool air pockets as I stretch my hand out the window and let it all go.