Old Car
Dad’s driving. He always drives. Mum wanted to drive for a while but the one day he let her, she reversed the car through the back wall of the garage into the living room. It was stuck there for three days until the wall could be chocked up and the car pulled out. She never asked again directly but knew she’d get a ‘no’ if she didn’t hint.
Dad’s driving us. He always drives us on these long holidays. Never stops complaining about petrol prices but every year the trip is even longer. Mum wanted to choose the destination a few years ago but she missed a couple of turns. We ended up driving all night along dirty back roads, through paddocks and copses. Across creeks. He draws the route on the map now so she can’t get the wrong way.
Dad’s driving this car. He always drives the ’68 Kingswood station wagon. Mum wanted to get a brand new VR Commodore with retractable seatbelts, ABS and an airbag but dad refused. ‘Too expensive,’ was all he’d say. The HK doesn’t even have seatbelts in the back for us. Mum tried to get him to put some in a couple of years ago but all he says is, ‘Wasn’t built that way.’
Dad’s driving this old car. He always drives it too fast down hill. Burning asbestos by the time we get to the bottom, every time. Mum found the brakes could be upgraded to discs and saved the money for them but dad refused. ‘They work fine,’ he says when the road levels out. On this holiday, we’re going through Mt Nebo, Mt Glorious and down the other side to Lake Wivenhoe. Then over to Toowoomba and back down through Helidon. ‘It’ll make it,’ he says.