Not my father's

I drive a 1990 Oldsmobile.

Here's why: It was my grandmother's.

She died in 2004, nearly 101 years old. I loved her very, very much. I do not think my love for her is why I got the car.

I think I got that enormous, heavy, super-reliable, nearly-antique car because my aunt and mother were worried about me. I was living in D.C. without one, you see, having sold my old car when I left the country.

And I was doing fine, but then I suddenly had a car. An awesome car, of which I am weirdly proud, since I have nothing whatever to do with its awesomeness. I had cousins who perhaps needed it more, but suddenly, it was my car, and I was in love.

I never get into that car without thinking of Granny. A couple of times, that has made me cry. Mostly, though, it just makes me grin.

(Belated) Day 29 of my month of gratitude: I am grateful for my 1990 Oldsmobile and all it represents: Reliable transportation, connection to my grandmother, and the sweet thoughtfulness of my mother and aunt.