Dear Station Wagon,
I'm sure by now you've heard the bad news. Fortune has declared you dead. Gone. No more. Your market is drying up, you poor old thing. But I don't care what anyone says, you're alive and well in my heart.
Remember back in 1988 when you drove us to the pool every day in the summer? Good times. I recall the way your metal seat-belt buckles would get so hot -- I still look at the burns on my thighs with fondness. And who could forget the gentle tear sound you gave off when I peeled my skin from your scalding pleather when the babysitter forgot to lay down towels on the seats?
You taught me so much about sibling negotiations and playing to parental sympathies. Did you hear? SUVs these days have third-row seats! Spoiled rotten, I say.
Do the youngins out there know anything about a little phrase, shouted from mudrooms and front steps across the country from 1950 to 2000 ... a little declaration of independence while at the same time a call to arms ... a little phrase that goes: "NOT MIIIIDDDDDDDLLLE!!!!"
Third-row having, gas guzzling SUVs will make our nation's children weaker in life and in business. You, station wagon, taught us what it was like to barter and trade, and how to dress a burn wound. You kept us real and you kept us tough. You were so decidedly uncool that one's ego could never get too big. You kept us in check.
Then, in high school when we got our licences, you took a beating. Sorry about that guardrail incident. My bad. You kept on ticking. That's what we love most about you, dear wagon, aside from the way you smelled like gas for three days after we filled you up, or the way the tape player would jam and we'd have to get the pick-up stick out of the glove compartment to untangle the mess you made.
So many memories, station wagon. We'll miss you.
Are you sad to see the station wagon go?
Photo via SexCpotatoes/Flickr