No :(
They're not selling the Ford Crown Victoria to consumers anymore after this year.
I don't know why, but that's upsetting me a lot. I feel like I got hit in the chest, seriously. That's the only car I've ever given a crap about. It's not all fancy and show-offy like the other luxury cars, and it's not all tiny and bubble-shaped like the stupid sports cars. It's big and sturdy and has 6 seats. Six! And I'll never be able to have one of my own.
I won't ever, ever forget my 1983 model. She was HUGE. I was tiny and an only child to boot. So I had an oasis of a back seat all to myself. She had soft, cushiony plush seats with that kind of velvety thing going on, where you can draw patterns and stuff in the fabric. She let you feel how fast you were going and she let you feel all the pot holes, but she never made you feel uncomfortable. She made you feel safe. You were going fifty and you knew it, and she was going to hold on to you no matter how much the car bumped. She never let you go too fast, because you could feel it- no excuses. Her seat belts were soft but strong and never let you fly too far forward when she stopped short. She let you go places with lots of family members all squeezed comfortably inside. She had ashtrays in the door handles you could hide stuff in. She had the best arm rests EVER- stuffed full and soft like pillows. You could hide, like, three people in the trunk if you had to. She'd let you store whatever you wanted back there, no problem. In front, she had a simple face, a long checkerboard with two square headlights on either side with a little tiny Ford logo. That logo was up front because she meant business and wanted you to know who she was, but she was modest- she didn't scream for attention. You know what? She could even play cassettes.
And, okay, when the heat went and it was cold in the winter it wasn't so nice. When the engine, or whatever, squealed so loud you could hear her coming a block away, well, that was kind of annoying. But she was still my car. I never stopped loving her. We got other cars, but my father held on to her as long as he could, sticking her in the back yard when she wasn't reliable enough to go very far anymore and washing her as regularly as he could.
I would have happily let her stay behind my grandfather's house for the rest of forever, where I could climb inside with my own key and sit on the warm plush seats and be alone for a little while. But we had to let her go. I don't remember how much she went for. I think it was more than she was worth. My elderly neighbor bought her and let me keep her for a little while longer before he sent her away with his brother to get a new engine. The neighbor's moved away now, but my father did check up on the car every so often. I think she's in Tennesee right now, if she's still running. I hid a piece of Monopoly play money inside one of her arm rests. I wonder if it's still there. I know it was right to let her go someplace where they could fix her instead of letting her rot, but a piece of me died the day she drove away and never came back. I've never quite forgiven my father.
We used to call her Old Bess because she was old from the day we got her in 1993. I'm pretty sure I named her. She was there for my entire childhood... and she was possibly the biggest security blanket ever.
I still have her old keys.
Now I won't ever get a pair of new ones.
-4:49 AM
I don't know why, but that's upsetting me a lot. I feel like I got hit in the chest, seriously. That's the only car I've ever given a crap about. It's not all fancy and show-offy like the other luxury cars, and it's not all tiny and bubble-shaped like the stupid sports cars. It's big and sturdy and has 6 seats. Six! And I'll never be able to have one of my own.
I won't ever, ever forget my 1983 model. She was HUGE. I was tiny and an only child to boot. So I had an oasis of a back seat all to myself. She had soft, cushiony plush seats with that kind of velvety thing going on, where you can draw patterns and stuff in the fabric. She let you feel how fast you were going and she let you feel all the pot holes, but she never made you feel uncomfortable. She made you feel safe. You were going fifty and you knew it, and she was going to hold on to you no matter how much the car bumped. She never let you go too fast, because you could feel it- no excuses. Her seat belts were soft but strong and never let you fly too far forward when she stopped short. She let you go places with lots of family members all squeezed comfortably inside. She had ashtrays in the door handles you could hide stuff in. She had the best arm rests EVER- stuffed full and soft like pillows. You could hide, like, three people in the trunk if you had to. She'd let you store whatever you wanted back there, no problem. In front, she had a simple face, a long checkerboard with two square headlights on either side with a little tiny Ford logo. That logo was up front because she meant business and wanted you to know who she was, but she was modest- she didn't scream for attention. You know what? She could even play cassettes.
And, okay, when the heat went and it was cold in the winter it wasn't so nice. When the engine, or whatever, squealed so loud you could hear her coming a block away, well, that was kind of annoying. But she was still my car. I never stopped loving her. We got other cars, but my father held on to her as long as he could, sticking her in the back yard when she wasn't reliable enough to go very far anymore and washing her as regularly as he could.
I would have happily let her stay behind my grandfather's house for the rest of forever, where I could climb inside with my own key and sit on the warm plush seats and be alone for a little while. But we had to let her go. I don't remember how much she went for. I think it was more than she was worth. My elderly neighbor bought her and let me keep her for a little while longer before he sent her away with his brother to get a new engine. The neighbor's moved away now, but my father did check up on the car every so often. I think she's in Tennesee right now, if she's still running. I hid a piece of Monopoly play money inside one of her arm rests. I wonder if it's still there. I know it was right to let her go someplace where they could fix her instead of letting her rot, but a piece of me died the day she drove away and never came back. I've never quite forgiven my father.
We used to call her Old Bess because she was old from the day we got her in 1993. I'm pretty sure I named her. She was there for my entire childhood... and she was possibly the biggest security blanket ever.
I still have her old keys.
Now I won't ever get a pair of new ones.
-4:49 AM