I Had A Goat With No Nose

Boat Jr.

it has recently come to my attention, in the numerous self-serving conversations i've had in my new college career, that my childhood was anything but normal. i fell into the catergory of poor a child who had no such idea floating in my head, so i was blissfully happy eating hastilly microwaved salsbury steaks and entertaining myself with dirt and cardboard. the second offspring of two working parents, i enjoyed none of the frivalous ammentities normally afforded to the only daughter, daddy's little princess. and yet i never truly longed for anything unatainable. that is, until the onslaught of the mini van.

for a long time i believed my mother drove the perfect car. i lovely tan subaru station wagon affectionately called the boat. in later years the affection would wear off as the boat referred less and less to size, but to sound and, unfortunatly, to the fishy smell that had stuck with the old girl since my father had taken it upon himself to liberate several possums who had taken shelter in the shed he used to hide his embarrassment of a lawnmower. it is common knowledge that large north american rodents emmit some of the foulest assaults imaginable on one's nostrels when they are put in situations of stress or fear, but Mike insisted that as long as he drove with the windows down the stench would never stick. the possums had another idea about the fate of our beloved station wagon, and the car forver smelled as though along their journey Dad had stopped to repeatedly frighten the creatures into relieving themselves in the wire-topped sheetrock buckets now serving as pet carriers.

directly after, my mother brought up the subject of getting a new car, as the parents of other children in our car pool group began to complain of a lingering odor on the brand new starter winter coats and dockers corduroy pants which had been given as christmas presents to each of the neighbor boys. both of my brothers and i supported this idea with great enthusiasm, offering wonderfully lavish ideas of what the perfect Maguire car would be. tom had decided that it would be best to stay loyal to subaru, as there was nothing physically wrong with the boat, and pulled hard for the Outback, an early hybrid of wagon and sport utility vehicle. matt, being a full two years younger than me and obviously not qualified to pitch in, suggested a nice sleek buick, just like our grandmother because, as he put it, "at least you know it'll be safe, i mean look at the way grandma drives." tom and i looked quickly at mom, expecting a display of defense for her mother, who had helped the family out of numerous pickles, but instead she quickly finished of her red wine and said something about Buicks coming in all the wrong colors for a woman her age. as she wiped the corners of her mouth with a crumpled, fuzzy tissue she had found in the pocket of her grass stained jean shorts, i realized that the conversation had fallen on me. this was my moment to shine.

i had watched in envy as all of the popular girls at school were picked up at 3 o'clock by their stylish mothers in shiny round mini vans with glorious sliding doors and more cup holders than available juice boxes. i had ridden in several with close friends on the way to a girl scout meeting or an after school playdate, and had often dreamed of having that luxury right in my driveway. pressing myself into a captain's seat, quietly placing a Capri Sun in the little hole in the window ledge, sliding the armrest down over the seatbelt buckle, and settling in for what seemed like the most regal trip to the grocery anyone could have envisioned. to me a mini van was more than mass transit, it was a status symbol. i could finally walk confidently to the car after school, knowing that when the children whispered and pointed at me, they were wondering whether or not my mom had gotten the optional sunroof, not how many blocks away the car would have to be before they could stop breathing through their mouths.

as i relayed this story to my family, sitting at the cramped kitchen table eating meatloaf and some medley of frozen vegetables, i watched in horror as their faces turned from curiousity to downright amusement. i finished my thoughtful analysis of complementary interior fabrics and waited for the sounds of compliance, the realization that my idea was utter brilliance and they should have thought of it themselves. instead my dreams were crushed as my mother set down her fork and turned to me, the only one who didn't look she was having a good time.

"just tell me one thing, emily. why in the hell do you think i would want to drive a mini van?" this was the one argument i hadn't come prepared for. price could be taken care off, we didn't need power windows or a cassette player. colors could be easily compromised, and seating arrangements for the three children were always negotiable. but someone flat-out not wanting to own a rolling luxery cruise was lost on me. and no matter how much i pestered for a true reason, mom would simply state that she wasn't going to be "one of those moms. you know what i'm talking about." panic stricken, i turned to my father for support in my quest, but he was almost worse.

"i don't know where the four of you got the idea that we were getting rid of the boat. there's nothing wrong with it! just hold your nose, or stick it out the window."

and so the station wagon was passed on to him, and my mother assumed ownership of the dodge sedan typically reserved for trips to grandma's country club for brunch, and dad's business trips. the boat, almost sensing that it had come close to being replaced, made itself a little more useful. where it used to haul kids and book bags and sports equipment, it now transported lumber, and generally a child or two waving a tattered red shirt at following traffic, warning them of the extra length. no longer was there a child seat strapped in the middle of the back, but discarded beach towels, screw drivers, hammers, an assortment of change, and the odd power tool just returned by a friend. the boat had become a kind of junkyard for dad, a place reserved for him alone, as no one else liked to drive with the windows down, clinging to the door handles of the backseat because the seatbelts had long been lost between the seats.

years later my father would reluctantly trade in the boat for a used jeep cherokee sport with no air conditioning and faulty back seat belts. it was almost as though he wanted to pick the most uninviting car he could, but strangely enough riding in the jeep was considered a treat, as it was almost identical to riding in the boat.

posted by emily @ 2:09 AM