Most people take it for granted that their car will start in the morning. They turn the key and the engine runs, the windows work, there is fixed seating, it is equipped with factory parts installed at a licensed garage and it has heat.

Not in my family.

True we have been known to own a vehicle fitting this description, but not for long. Dad just couldn’t stand the stability of it all. He enjoyed the challenge he faced every morning of starting “The untamed wild beast” as we affectionately named one of his horrid contraptions.

The typical family outing would begin with a call that it was time to go. Ten kids would file through the kitchen each grabbing a kitchen chair as they passed by. We would all jump into the van and line the sides with our chairs. Then we’d all hold our breath as dad turned the key. It started!

In the summer, the lack of heat didn’t bother us, we just wanted some fresh air. To open the driver’s side window you would hold your hand on the glass, remove the screwdriver, let the glass drop the desired amount and then jam the screwdriver back in place. The passenger side window was “the Bryant luxury model,” you turned a pair of vice-grips (which were attached to where the handle used to be).

At some point during the outing we would find ourselves in the middle of a famous side-of-the-road repair job where dad saw it as a test of his ingenuity to be able to fix the van without the proper tools. He would use only things he could find in the van at the time.

Since I left home, one of the sweetest pleasures in life is starting my car each morning.

As we chattered and laughed our way out to the field, we ran into a former employer who looked at me and my room mate and said with a grin, “I see you’ve come with two old crows.” Taken aback and speechless, I smiled weakly and the moment was gone. For the remainder of that stifling hot morning, I simmered and stewed inside that I had not spoken up in defense of our close friends.

After arriving home I just had to sit down and put my feelings on paper. I wrote a letter to our former employer explaining that although aging folks (“old crows”) may appear to be past their prime, my close companions, Cecile and Laura, were simply young, vibrant women in old skins.