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Thursday, May 17, 2012

Okay, why is the title of my blog, My Father's Oldsmobile? Well, first of all, that's the title of the first story I had published. Second, because My Father's Oldsmobile is me.
Not to worry, I shall explain.
Have you ever been engaged in a completely pointless conversation for the sole purpose of passing the time and ended up with hurt feelings?
I know this may come as a surprise, but I have.
When I was in college, several friends and I decided to take a weekend road trip. It was a long trip, and we were bored. And it just so happens that boredom is a great instigator of thought. It either leads to something brilliant, or something... well, hmm... Let's just say that all those years back, when Matthew McConaughey got arrested for playing the bongo drums really loud while in the nude, it's because earlier that night he was bored.
We were determined to not take take the bongo drum route (though Matthew's incident still wouldn't occur for a few years) and decided to sooth our boredom through a more philosophical approach. In our search for enlightenment, my friends and I stumbled upon the topic; If you were a car, what kind would you be?
You can see where this headed. Stick with me--there's a happy ending.
Now, I should have known better than to participate in this conversation, because for some reason, I always had gorgeous friends. I was the one with the 'good personality.' But I like to yak, and considered myself intelligent, so I charged right in.
We started with Tiffany. She was tall and slender, with wavy blonde hair reaching to the middle of her back. The word, 'striking,' didn't do her justice. To borrow a line from my original story, "She could catch a guy's attention faster than a Corvette." And yes, that's what type of car we decided she was.
We came to Dianne next. (By the way, these aren't their real names.) Dianne was a very classy girl. She came from an upscale neighborhood, and carried herself with confidence and grace. It seemed quite fitting that she should be a Mercedes.
Then there was Cindy. It took a little more time to choose for her. Cindy was petite. She had beautiful, long blonde hair, that swung about--especially when she was in a bubbly mood. And she often was. She also had a girl-next-door kind of appeal. We thought for a bit, and Tiffany came up with the perfect automobile to personify. (Or is it the other way around?) Cindy was a pale yellow, VW convertible.
Then it was my turn. All three gave me a long study. Dianne had to use the rear view mirror because she was driving. And the perplexing looks on their faces should have clued me in as to why they seemed hesitant. But no..."Come on guys. What am I?" Finally Cindy piped up and said, "An Oldsmobile."
We didn't do much talking for the rest of the drive.
Okay, at the time, my thoughts were, "I am not!" Oldsmobiles are plain, humdrum, dull, boring... I can run down the list of synonyms, but I think you get my point. For a long time I refused to admit, that really, I'm kind of an Oldsmobile; though I prefer the fully restored 1941 Club Coupe in the color Maroon, thank you very much.
As I've grown in years and wisdom. I've become quite comfortable with the idea of being an Oldsmobile. Not just comfortable; proud. Because I've given a lot of thought to what an Oldsmobile actually is.
It's dependable and trustworthy. Strong. There's a lot of room for friends in an Oldsmobile. It can take a beating, and still run. But most important, an Oldmobile isn't made for showing off. It's made for serving. And that's who I want to be. A servant to my Father in Heaven. So, yep, I'm pleased as punch to be My Father's Oldsmobile.
And now you know the reason for the name of my blog.