The convertible was a soft, creamy lemon in color with a jet black top, neatly rolled back under a dry Maine sky. The owner stood before us, two satiny kerchiefs in her hands and a golden one tied delicately under her chin. “Climb in, ladies! It is the perfect afternoon for your first ride in my new buggy.”
According to my mom, I began to jump up and down with the unbridled vigor of a 6-year-old. My mother was this lady’s housekeeper and we were on our way to Portage Lake to spend the weekend at her camp. Dad would join us there later. I took my place in the middle of the front seat and Mom tied my kerchief snugly under my chin, pulled me close, and the journey began!
Beneath that kerchief, the slope of the windshield, and my mother’s protective arm, the convertible experience was lost. I asked Mom if I could take the kerchief off and her answer was ‘no.’ Well, could I at least sit in the backseat? Her response was another firm ‘no.’ What if I somehow fell out onto the road, she asked? After all, there was no protection back there. As for the kerchief; well, did I really want to deal with a “rat’s nest?”
At this point, there was only one thing I could do and that was to cry. Actually, Mom reported it was more of a wail. The kind lady convinced Mom that I would more than likely not fall out of the backseat and if my hair got tangled, then so be it! There were brushes and combs at the camp.
As a compromise, my mother accompanied me into the back seat, where we took our kerchiefs off, leaned back into the plushy vinyl, closed our eyes, and tasted freedom. After all, isn’t that what convertibles are all about?
Needless to say, my hair was filled with snarls and my cheeks were bright red from the sting of the open air, but it was worth every tug of the comb. Throughout the weekend, each time that sleek, marvelous car even hinted at turning one of those chrome wheels, you could find me perched in the backseat, my eyes tightly shut in sweet anticipation.
I can well imagine that dear lady thanked God above many times over as she watched the three of us drive away on Sunday; my upper body thrust out of the back window of our car, waving furiously until I could no longer see the lovely camp behind us. I rolled down both of the back windows and asked my father if plain old cars like ours could be transformed into convertibles. He shook his head apologetically and asked me if I wanted to come up front and sit between him and Mom. “I’ll let you steer the car until we get onto the main road, Bin. Would you like that?”
With no seat belt to unbuckle, I quickly clambered over the front seat, and positioned myself on my knees between my parents. I placed my hand gently on the top of the steering wheel, my eyes scanning the road ahead. Dreams of owning a convertible dissolved into the lazy afternoon light as I carefully drove the three of us over the camp road and back to the busy highway.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
