Stop Breaking Down

My first car was a purple Rambler. My oldest sister drove it first and then is passed to my middle sister. My father took it over and waited two years to hand it to me when I got my licence. It was a real American car of the 1960s and 1970s. There was always something wrong with it and always something with it expected to go wrong. The engine would start if you stepped just the right way on the brake pedal, with no key in the ignition. And sometimes you could park the car, take the key, get out, lock the door and head toward the store or toward the school and the car would sit there and crank itself up. Then the car died. My oldest sister and I had been to Greenville, to the only record store in the area, and on the way back just before our country-road turnoff the radiator hose busted. My sister and I heard the bang of the steam releasing from the hose and we both looked back and saw water on the road. My sister said, "Look at all the red lights on the dashboard" and "What do you think it was?" I said maybe it was a water balloon. Maybe someone threw a water balloon at us. And though the roads were clear and there was no place to hide for anyone on either side of the road the water balloon story held up until the engine seized up just at the top of our driveway and about a mile and a half from where we'd been attacked by the water balloon.