The ferry drops us off and holding hands we climb back into the mighty Suburban. Our covered wagon of sorts has found a home in the wilderness of Whidbey Island. Having provided many miles of service to its family, we have decided to put it out to pasture in a great driveway of gravel and clover. Ocean air swirls around as deer check out their reflection in the sand brushed exterior.
Add several hundreds miles to the over 100 thousand you’ve already racked up and land us on an island in Washington, we said. It did so without a fuss, only asking for fuel every 200 miles.
Now sprawled about, my 3 boys and our dog the size of Rhode Island command the back seat. Looking back I see many sizes of bare feet and large paws thrashed about, competing with the fast food containers and electronic cords. Something, someone is plugged in and if it is quiet enough for The Captain and I to talk, we don’t ask questions.
This mighty Chevrolet has a purpose still; to keep us safe on country roads and deliver us to lands yet discovered, to find us grocery stores and campsites, farmers markets and rainforests.
This behemoth of an automobile wears it well, doesn’t complain when driven too far, too hard. I think it has become a better car, unpretentious among the farmers and country folk with tractors and pickups. Having to hold its own against the Mercedes, Beamers and Land Rovers of the Southern Californian crowd, this old Suburban can now turn off, ping and pop and cool in the shade of the swaying pines.
