I've always been a dog person, more specifically a big dog person. We had a cat once, but it made multiple members of my family bleed and ran away within a month, so we took that as a sign. Since I was born, my family had hosted no dogs other than Golden Retrievers and Labradors; little frou-frou, ankle-biting canine pests were never our type, and to be honest, we scoffed at the families that had them sometimes. Of course, only by the work of my baby sister did we end up getting a little surprise at Christmas last year, a Maltepoo (Maltese and Poodle, what could be worse), puppy we decided to call Daisy.
My brother and I did not welcome Daisy into the family like we should have; we already had a Black Lab named Shadow that my brother and I love to death, but no... Claire needs a dog that's going to stay little forever. So thus, we had to deal with Daisy.
To be honest though, my liking for Daisy came very quickly. She would lay on my chest and fall asleep right along with me on those warm nights I would spend watching TV on the couch; as my mother started to say "she probably thinks you're her mama." I still resent that statement, but regardless Daisy and I bonded quickly, and I have come to love her for the odd dog she is today.
Saying that dog is the weirdest animal I know would probably be an understatement. Like illustrated in the previous paragraph, she has a more calm side to her, but boy can that change fast. Whenever we go out to play fetch with Shadow, she will simply wait by his side til he takes off running after the ball, and then follow him biting his ankles the entire way. Shadow doesn't seem to mind, but honestly I think he's too dumb to know what's going on (that's why we love him).
Having a quirky dog comes at a price though, one that can be gross and unsanitary at times. Daisy loves new people with a passion, and when I mean love I mean loses control of her bodily functions love. Multiple people have been struck by the monster that is her bladder control: as she jumps on your leg, screaming with her eyes, "Hold me please! I'm adorable and fluffy!," don't be fooled. Those who are will pick her up and promptly be sprinkled by a stream of dog urine. I don't know if that dog thinks it's funny or she legitimately has a problem, but either way it's gross, and we just kind of deal with it.
As disgusting as that is, it's just one of those oddities that has made Daisy the dog that we've come to love today. Even though Jake and I despised her existence at first, I think we have both come to accept her and her quirky self as someone that fits right in with the Hockett family. And besides, Shadow is really dumb. He needs someone there to help him out in those tough doggy-life decisions.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
The Great Outdoors
If you didn't catch on in my blog about hunting and my most relaxing moment, I love the outdoors more than anything in the world. Whether it be hunting, fishing, camping or just going for a walk, I just can't get enough of this beauty that the good Lord provided for all of us. For this instance though, I want to talk about a spur of the moment camping trip two friends and I took just a few weeks ago that I will never forget, specifically that night.
We had just returned from a game of night golf, all pretty exhausted and pretty much ready to settle down at camp. The weather was perfect: slightly warm, but a cool breeze blowing without fail keeping us comfortable. Unfortunately, there was a burn ban in the county (much needed though, seeing that this place was near the Possum Kingdom area that is being ravaged by wildfires currently), but in reality we needed no fire to be happy.
Make fun of me all you want for this next statement, but there's just something that happens when fine men get together with fine tobacco. Something great. As Tyler and I lit our cigars for the occasion, he, Ryan and I started talking, talking about pretty much anything. Of course there was talk of women and such things like relationships (what we have come to call "bro talk"), and it's talk like that that really lets you take a load of. Emotions like that can really build up and be a big burden, and I know I don't only speak for myself when I say it feels great to get that stuff off your chest.
The fine conversation continued, stuff we were excited to hear, and maybe even some truths we didn't want to accept but we knew we had to. Unadulterated fellowship and conversation is great, and combined with a great smoke with great friends and some of the most beautiful stars I have seen in ages, I could not have felt like I could be at a better place in my life.
As the glow our our cigars began to fade away along with our abilities to keep our eyes open, sleep was now on our minds. We had set up a tent, but we all had a better idea for that night; there was no way we weren't sleeping under the beautiful show God put up for us in the sky. So with that we slipped into our sleeping bags, laying against the long, Texas grass ready to sleep under the stars. It took me a long time to fall asleep last night, but in the best way possible. Never did I close my eyes to put myself to sleep, I simply stared into the eyes of the beautiful beast that was the night sky, littered with light that I know only my God could have put there with his own hands.
I don't remember when I fell asleep that night, but I do remember waking up later than I ever expected to in the heat of the sun, with no memory of dreams but only of those euphoric few hours my friends and I spent with mother nature the night before.
We had just returned from a game of night golf, all pretty exhausted and pretty much ready to settle down at camp. The weather was perfect: slightly warm, but a cool breeze blowing without fail keeping us comfortable. Unfortunately, there was a burn ban in the county (much needed though, seeing that this place was near the Possum Kingdom area that is being ravaged by wildfires currently), but in reality we needed no fire to be happy.
Make fun of me all you want for this next statement, but there's just something that happens when fine men get together with fine tobacco. Something great. As Tyler and I lit our cigars for the occasion, he, Ryan and I started talking, talking about pretty much anything. Of course there was talk of women and such things like relationships (what we have come to call "bro talk"), and it's talk like that that really lets you take a load of. Emotions like that can really build up and be a big burden, and I know I don't only speak for myself when I say it feels great to get that stuff off your chest.
The fine conversation continued, stuff we were excited to hear, and maybe even some truths we didn't want to accept but we knew we had to. Unadulterated fellowship and conversation is great, and combined with a great smoke with great friends and some of the most beautiful stars I have seen in ages, I could not have felt like I could be at a better place in my life.
As the glow our our cigars began to fade away along with our abilities to keep our eyes open, sleep was now on our minds. We had set up a tent, but we all had a better idea for that night; there was no way we weren't sleeping under the beautiful show God put up for us in the sky. So with that we slipped into our sleeping bags, laying against the long, Texas grass ready to sleep under the stars. It took me a long time to fall asleep last night, but in the best way possible. Never did I close my eyes to put myself to sleep, I simply stared into the eyes of the beautiful beast that was the night sky, littered with light that I know only my God could have put there with his own hands.
I don't remember when I fell asleep that night, but I do remember waking up later than I ever expected to in the heat of the sun, with no memory of dreams but only of those euphoric few hours my friends and I spent with mother nature the night before.
A Memorable Teacher
I will always remember my first day of high school newspaper; I walked into the class with a few friends ready for just another regular class, but that’s not quite what I got. Not far behind us stooped in our teacher, a tallish, stubby man sweating very prominently who I would have the privilege of getting to know over the next three years of my life, a man named Cecil Kent Smith.
My first impression of the man wasn’t the best, his awkwardness was ridiculous. The large sweat stains hiding under his armpits and the shakiness of his voice made him difficult to take serious. But as the days went by, I learned to like him; for some reason he let us call him “Coach” (his only classes were journalism and study hall) and he was much more relaxed than the other stereotypical high school teachers. However, Coach Smith wasn’t the perfect teacher; he unfortunately had the organizational skills of a 3rd grade boy.
It wasn’t that I had a bittersweet relationship with the guy or anything; I had always liked him, and never thought of him as a “bad teacher.” But going through three full years of spending at least an hour with Smith every weekday, I learned a lot, and not always through good example.
His personality and almost weirdness was something I really admired. I’d be sitting in the room trying to study for some test I had coming up, but even though he saw me busy he would still bring up last night’s big game to me or something like that, and as much as I didn’t want to, I’d find myself having an hour long conversation about the Rangers by the time I had to go in for my test. I may have suffered in U.S. History a little bit, but at the same time it turned my mood from stressful to spirited.
Lots of things he said to me were meaningful too, my most remembered being “When somebody is doing something right, let ‘em know.” I’ve noticed how much this actually helps when you work, and from both perspectives. It gives the worker a sense of reward, and also helps the giver of the advice to keep his workers’ spirits high and keep them productive.
Like I said though, Smith was no perfect man. The staff would spend many late nights trying to finish the paper for press due to his lack of prior planning, and more than a few times did the paper accidentally run unprofessional headlines for stories (for example, one issue a basketball headline was “BALLIN’,” nothing more, nothing less). This reflected his personal organization too; I one time went to his car for him only to find it filled with breadcrumbs, paper, clothes and even a half empty can of Old Spice. Despite it all, I learned from Smith’s flaws. No good person can be perfect, and from this I strived to keep myself more organized than my teacher counterpart. I also discovered that organization is the framework of all large-scale things, and without it everything can fall apart.
My memories will always live on for Kent Smith, who sadly took a better job at another school a few summers ago, and I will never cease to be amazed about how interesting of a person he was and how he impacted me. From breadcrumbs to baseball, Kent Smith was a man of a man.
My first impression of the man wasn’t the best, his awkwardness was ridiculous. The large sweat stains hiding under his armpits and the shakiness of his voice made him difficult to take serious. But as the days went by, I learned to like him; for some reason he let us call him “Coach” (his only classes were journalism and study hall) and he was much more relaxed than the other stereotypical high school teachers. However, Coach Smith wasn’t the perfect teacher; he unfortunately had the organizational skills of a 3rd grade boy.
It wasn’t that I had a bittersweet relationship with the guy or anything; I had always liked him, and never thought of him as a “bad teacher.” But going through three full years of spending at least an hour with Smith every weekday, I learned a lot, and not always through good example.
His personality and almost weirdness was something I really admired. I’d be sitting in the room trying to study for some test I had coming up, but even though he saw me busy he would still bring up last night’s big game to me or something like that, and as much as I didn’t want to, I’d find myself having an hour long conversation about the Rangers by the time I had to go in for my test. I may have suffered in U.S. History a little bit, but at the same time it turned my mood from stressful to spirited.
Lots of things he said to me were meaningful too, my most remembered being “When somebody is doing something right, let ‘em know.” I’ve noticed how much this actually helps when you work, and from both perspectives. It gives the worker a sense of reward, and also helps the giver of the advice to keep his workers’ spirits high and keep them productive.
Like I said though, Smith was no perfect man. The staff would spend many late nights trying to finish the paper for press due to his lack of prior planning, and more than a few times did the paper accidentally run unprofessional headlines for stories (for example, one issue a basketball headline was “BALLIN’,” nothing more, nothing less). This reflected his personal organization too; I one time went to his car for him only to find it filled with breadcrumbs, paper, clothes and even a half empty can of Old Spice. Despite it all, I learned from Smith’s flaws. No good person can be perfect, and from this I strived to keep myself more organized than my teacher counterpart. I also discovered that organization is the framework of all large-scale things, and without it everything can fall apart.
My memories will always live on for Kent Smith, who sadly took a better job at another school a few summers ago, and I will never cease to be amazed about how interesting of a person he was and how he impacted me. From breadcrumbs to baseball, Kent Smith was a man of a man.
Men and Musicals
I’ll be honest, I never really enjoyed the whole Disney “High School Musical” scene. The athlete-turned-thespian drama always seemed really tacky, and the plot line was ridiculous. However, not in a million years would I have guessed that my last couple of years of high school turned out to be, in one way or another, strangely similar to this tweenage movie series.
To clear things up, my experience was most certainly not anything identical to the movies; I was definitely not the school’s star athlete, I can’t exactly sing or dance, nor did I have a beautiful girlfriend who’s going to Stanford and also happens to share similar interests with me. As spectacular of a life as that would be, it didn't really happen, and probably never will. Don’t pity me though. My non-fantasy high school extracurriculars and/or love life were in fact just peachy.
Now for the weird part. After two years of playing football and realizing that having to stand out in the Texas heat without reward isn’t fun, I quit. The next year, I took Theatre I just to get my fine arts credit over with, but guess who ended up liking this whole deal? I then proceeded to try out for the musical my senior year, and with no past experience managed to get the role in which I was interested. Don’t call me Troy Bolton, but I’m starting to feel for that slightly effeminate heterosexual.
I don’t want to come off as pretentious, but it just struck me how this fiasco fell into place. Football just wasn’t my scene; I found myself sitting on the sidelines, well, just not wanting to play. But this whole inner-thespian thing I found somewhere in myself was quite a pleasant surprise.
Playing my character in the musical, “Good News!,” was entertainment in itself; being Beef Saunders just never got old. It was strange at first though, because the character was described as the “hulking brute of the football team,” and if you know me, I’m really no brute.
However, becoming Beef was interesting; I had to turn my voice into that of a creatine-raging fullback, but at first it just sounded like a pirate with emphysema-not really one of Beef’s character traits. Also important was my “jock-walk,” which is basically walking like you have weights tied to your neck and a balloon in your chest.
All of this may sound silly, but honestly the whole situation depends on the perspective you take on things when judging what’s cool and what you think you might be interested in. So if this anecdote was completely senseless to you, at least take these three things:
1. Men in musicals are not fruitcakes.
2. Zac Efron may not be as much of a tool as we think he is.
3. And lastly, if there’s something you really want to get involved in, just do it, no matter what other people or things may dictate to you. Go Frogs.
To clear things up, my experience was most certainly not anything identical to the movies; I was definitely not the school’s star athlete, I can’t exactly sing or dance, nor did I have a beautiful girlfriend who’s going to Stanford and also happens to share similar interests with me. As spectacular of a life as that would be, it didn't really happen, and probably never will. Don’t pity me though. My non-fantasy high school extracurriculars and/or love life were in fact just peachy.
Now for the weird part. After two years of playing football and realizing that having to stand out in the Texas heat without reward isn’t fun, I quit. The next year, I took Theatre I just to get my fine arts credit over with, but guess who ended up liking this whole deal? I then proceeded to try out for the musical my senior year, and with no past experience managed to get the role in which I was interested. Don’t call me Troy Bolton, but I’m starting to feel for that slightly effeminate heterosexual.
I don’t want to come off as pretentious, but it just struck me how this fiasco fell into place. Football just wasn’t my scene; I found myself sitting on the sidelines, well, just not wanting to play. But this whole inner-thespian thing I found somewhere in myself was quite a pleasant surprise.
Playing my character in the musical, “Good News!,” was entertainment in itself; being Beef Saunders just never got old. It was strange at first though, because the character was described as the “hulking brute of the football team,” and if you know me, I’m really no brute.
However, becoming Beef was interesting; I had to turn my voice into that of a creatine-raging fullback, but at first it just sounded like a pirate with emphysema-not really one of Beef’s character traits. Also important was my “jock-walk,” which is basically walking like you have weights tied to your neck and a balloon in your chest.
All of this may sound silly, but honestly the whole situation depends on the perspective you take on things when judging what’s cool and what you think you might be interested in. So if this anecdote was completely senseless to you, at least take these three things:
1. Men in musicals are not fruitcakes.
2. Zac Efron may not be as much of a tool as we think he is.
3. And lastly, if there’s something you really want to get involved in, just do it, no matter what other people or things may dictate to you. Go Frogs.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Heaven on Earth
In such a stressful time of life, sometimes it's nice just to take a step back. Stop worrying about the matter at hand for just a moment, and breathe. Just... relax. Here is the most relaxing moment I've ever had in my life.
5:30 a.m., January 2 2009, my dad and I just climbed into the blind on our annual New Year's deer hunt. It's quiet as can be outside, and only the light of the dimly lit sky sheds visibility onto the Texas landscape. I sit down, take a deep breath, and exhale to see my breath appear before me, however as one might think I did not feel cold. I had dressed well for the morning. It was time to wait.
The sun slowly rose in the east, bringing the warm colors of the plains alive from their hiding in the night. We could practically see the dew setting on the mixed grasses surrounding us, and the night fog was pierced and disappeared with the coming of the sunlight. I had nearly forgotten about the purpose of my presence until the sounds of life burst forth from the scene.
Before we saw any deer at all, nearly a hundred turkeys filled the pasture, the toms strutting around like high school freshman in pursuit of their first date. Turkey are funny birds, yet keen and beautiful at the same time. I again forgot my purpose for the morning.
Finally, as what seemed to be Pachelbel's Canon in Gobble came to a close, the deer ascended from the deep brush where they had been bedded for the night, creeping along the outside of the field as not to intrude with the symphony in the middle. I saw my target, the young buck with a wide antler spread and clearly the dominant male of his chums. My relaxation was beginning to fade with nervousness of the shot I was about to make. I put it past me, took my aim and pulled the trigger.
At that moment, I saw the deer I had pursued drop to the ground. And the funny thing is, the entire scene experienced no change; the deer didn't move, the turkey continued their serenade, and the sun shined just as bright. I looked at the beautiful scene and embraced my success, and felt more relaxed than I had ever felt in my life.
In no other place do I feel more relaxed or at home than in the wild, raw world that the Lord has provided. And I will stand by that til I die.
5:30 a.m., January 2 2009, my dad and I just climbed into the blind on our annual New Year's deer hunt. It's quiet as can be outside, and only the light of the dimly lit sky sheds visibility onto the Texas landscape. I sit down, take a deep breath, and exhale to see my breath appear before me, however as one might think I did not feel cold. I had dressed well for the morning. It was time to wait.
The sun slowly rose in the east, bringing the warm colors of the plains alive from their hiding in the night. We could practically see the dew setting on the mixed grasses surrounding us, and the night fog was pierced and disappeared with the coming of the sunlight. I had nearly forgotten about the purpose of my presence until the sounds of life burst forth from the scene.
Before we saw any deer at all, nearly a hundred turkeys filled the pasture, the toms strutting around like high school freshman in pursuit of their first date. Turkey are funny birds, yet keen and beautiful at the same time. I again forgot my purpose for the morning.
Finally, as what seemed to be Pachelbel's Canon in Gobble came to a close, the deer ascended from the deep brush where they had been bedded for the night, creeping along the outside of the field as not to intrude with the symphony in the middle. I saw my target, the young buck with a wide antler spread and clearly the dominant male of his chums. My relaxation was beginning to fade with nervousness of the shot I was about to make. I put it past me, took my aim and pulled the trigger.
At that moment, I saw the deer I had pursued drop to the ground. And the funny thing is, the entire scene experienced no change; the deer didn't move, the turkey continued their serenade, and the sun shined just as bright. I looked at the beautiful scene and embraced my success, and felt more relaxed than I had ever felt in my life.
In no other place do I feel more relaxed or at home than in the wild, raw world that the Lord has provided. And I will stand by that til I die.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Samwise Gamg...Wilgus
So my mind is just on fire for blogging right now, so here we go for another one.
Friends have always been such an important part of my life, I have no idea where I would be without all of them. Making friends has never come as a hard task for me either, just due to the fact that I am very outgoing and easy to get along with. However there are certain friends of mine for which we share a different connection, one much more close and very odd compared to regular friendships. The friend of mine that best exemplifies this is my best friend growing up and in high school, Mr. Sam Barker Wilgus. But we just call him Sam.
Sam is by far the weirdest person I know, and for that I love him. Every year, and I mean every year, he is a hobbit for Halloween (and don't think that's the only occasion he walks around barefoot with his khaki pants rolled up and a pipe sitting in the corner of his mouth). He also was the Editor-In-Chief of our schools newspaper. And the funniest person I've ever met. Sam is the most eclectic person I know.
Some of you may have already made the LOTR connection in the title of this post, but if not, Samwise Gamge is the kindred-hearted hobbit from the series, a name I frequently call my buddy. Lord of the Rings is a common bond Sam and I share; we both love anything and everything to do with it. A few summers ago, Sam and I had the privilege of climbing a volcano in Guatemala while on a mission trip; if you haven't already guessed, we were giddy with joy and excitement. Yes, we called each other Sam and Frodo the entire time. Yes, we spoke with British accents without fail that day. And yes, we absolutely bought a plastic ring at the market and threw it into the lava at the top of the volcano. It's things like this why some people choose not to be friends with people like Sam and I, but we never cared because we loved it, no matter how stupid it was.
Sadly Sam and I have parted ways since last fall, he pursuing the ministry of the Lord at Wheaton College in Chicago (Sam is a modern day saint (his favorite is Saint Francis)), and me leaving Dallas for the far away land called Ft. Worth. But it's alright, because we keep up well and spend practically every waking moment together when in Dallas at the same time. We plan to one day go backpacking and kayaking through New Zealand when we have graduated; something we like to think we be our "lifetime reunion" trip.
This is starting to sound creepy though, like Sam and I are soulmates or something haha. Not quite, but I do love that kid to death. Sam is just a friend that I will cherish forever and hope to never lose, because he really has stayed with me through the bad and good and helped me become the man I am today.
Friends have always been such an important part of my life, I have no idea where I would be without all of them. Making friends has never come as a hard task for me either, just due to the fact that I am very outgoing and easy to get along with. However there are certain friends of mine for which we share a different connection, one much more close and very odd compared to regular friendships. The friend of mine that best exemplifies this is my best friend growing up and in high school, Mr. Sam Barker Wilgus. But we just call him Sam.
Sam is by far the weirdest person I know, and for that I love him. Every year, and I mean every year, he is a hobbit for Halloween (and don't think that's the only occasion he walks around barefoot with his khaki pants rolled up and a pipe sitting in the corner of his mouth). He also was the Editor-In-Chief of our schools newspaper. And the funniest person I've ever met. Sam is the most eclectic person I know.
Some of you may have already made the LOTR connection in the title of this post, but if not, Samwise Gamge is the kindred-hearted hobbit from the series, a name I frequently call my buddy. Lord of the Rings is a common bond Sam and I share; we both love anything and everything to do with it. A few summers ago, Sam and I had the privilege of climbing a volcano in Guatemala while on a mission trip; if you haven't already guessed, we were giddy with joy and excitement. Yes, we called each other Sam and Frodo the entire time. Yes, we spoke with British accents without fail that day. And yes, we absolutely bought a plastic ring at the market and threw it into the lava at the top of the volcano. It's things like this why some people choose not to be friends with people like Sam and I, but we never cared because we loved it, no matter how stupid it was.
Sadly Sam and I have parted ways since last fall, he pursuing the ministry of the Lord at Wheaton College in Chicago (Sam is a modern day saint (his favorite is Saint Francis)), and me leaving Dallas for the far away land called Ft. Worth. But it's alright, because we keep up well and spend practically every waking moment together when in Dallas at the same time. We plan to one day go backpacking and kayaking through New Zealand when we have graduated; something we like to think we be our "lifetime reunion" trip.
This is starting to sound creepy though, like Sam and I are soulmates or something haha. Not quite, but I do love that kid to death. Sam is just a friend that I will cherish forever and hope to never lose, because he really has stayed with me through the bad and good and helped me become the man I am today.
The Tank
Minus my one meeting with Hannah and her conversation partner, y'all might have realized via discussion in class that I've had bad luck with the ESL students. Either that, or my name translated to "jerkface" or "I hate you" in Chinese, Korean or whichever respective language the student speaks, because they refuse to respond to my emails. Awesome. But when Dr. Williams sent us the list of alternative blogging options, I opened the document and my eye was instantly drawn to one topic- write about your car.
Again as discussed in class, I drive a 1999 GMC Suburban that holds eight people comfortably (nine if you include the beach chair in the trunk that has not left my car since South Padre Island). He's got 180,000 miles on him, and to just drive strait you practically have to hold a hard left all the time. It smells kind of funny, shakes when you break 60 miles per hour, but it's all these things that I love about my car. A car so affectionately named Frank, the Tank, or Frank the Tank by my friends, with the recent addition of Deathtrap by one of more cautious driving peers (that name may or may not be more influenced by my style of driving).
I think what so attaches me to my car is the fact that I have been commuting in it for literally most of my lifetime, and by that I mean 13 years. Granted I haven't been driving the car since I was 6, it was the old family car, but when I took over the wheel at age 16 I felt like I had been driving that car for forever.
People ask if it sucks that I have to have an old hand-me-down car more often than you'd think, but my response is always no; I've made that car my own in uncountable ways. It may be the addition of the "party" seat in the trunk, or the 5-6 months spans when my car savvy friend and I will rip off the muffler just for kicks, making that car roar like the lion I think it is on the inside. If you can't tell by this great American novel I just wrote about an old piece of junk, I freaking love that car.
Sadly enough though I am starting to see the ol' Tank come close to his limit these days. Batteries seem to last shorter and shorter, trouble starting is more frequent, and multiple trips to the shop are just a hassle. That's ok though, because it's just the circle of life. Frank will go on to better things one of these days when he just can't be mine anymore, and I've accepted that. But someday in the future, I'll look back and remember the fits of laughter, private screams of anger and dismay, and experiences of a lifetime I had in that old Suburban.
Again as discussed in class, I drive a 1999 GMC Suburban that holds eight people comfortably (nine if you include the beach chair in the trunk that has not left my car since South Padre Island). He's got 180,000 miles on him, and to just drive strait you practically have to hold a hard left all the time. It smells kind of funny, shakes when you break 60 miles per hour, but it's all these things that I love about my car. A car so affectionately named Frank, the Tank, or Frank the Tank by my friends, with the recent addition of Deathtrap by one of more cautious driving peers (that name may or may not be more influenced by my style of driving).
I think what so attaches me to my car is the fact that I have been commuting in it for literally most of my lifetime, and by that I mean 13 years. Granted I haven't been driving the car since I was 6, it was the old family car, but when I took over the wheel at age 16 I felt like I had been driving that car for forever.
People ask if it sucks that I have to have an old hand-me-down car more often than you'd think, but my response is always no; I've made that car my own in uncountable ways. It may be the addition of the "party" seat in the trunk, or the 5-6 months spans when my car savvy friend and I will rip off the muffler just for kicks, making that car roar like the lion I think it is on the inside. If you can't tell by this great American novel I just wrote about an old piece of junk, I freaking love that car.
Sadly enough though I am starting to see the ol' Tank come close to his limit these days. Batteries seem to last shorter and shorter, trouble starting is more frequent, and multiple trips to the shop are just a hassle. That's ok though, because it's just the circle of life. Frank will go on to better things one of these days when he just can't be mine anymore, and I've accepted that. But someday in the future, I'll look back and remember the fits of laughter, private screams of anger and dismay, and experiences of a lifetime I had in that old Suburban.
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