Our Family Cars

Our family cars carried their own stories. The 1955 red Chevy Station Wagon was legendary. It hauled us everywhere — groceries, camping gear, kids piled in like sardines. My brother was one of the primary drivers. He used that car to pull people out of the snow frequently.

One day, we were riding together. I was in the passenger seat, and he slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a car. We didn't have seat belts back then, and I slammed into the dashboard and got a goose-egg growing on my forehead the size of a tennis ball. Painful, yes, but also hilarious in hindsight.

Those cars were rolling classrooms where we learned patience, toughness, and how to laugh through the bruises. Trying to explain to our parents what happened to me and how I got this goose-egg was another matter.

Growing up in that noisy clan taught me grit. It taught me that love isn't always gentle, but it's always present. Family ruts feel confined, yet they also carved the path that kept me grounded.