BREAKING NEWS (PART I OF III)

JANUARY 12, 2021 – The news has gotten so bad, I need to take a break—so to speak—and tell a story.  Make that two, one within another.

In the year I turned 51, I bought a brand-new Ford Mustang. It even had vanity plates bearing the nickname and origins of the car’s first forebear: PNY 645 (“Pony”; mid-year 1964).  Lest you think I was in crisis, I bought the lowest-end model on the lot. And lest you think I was impulsive, know that back in the day, our uncle had owned a couple of Mustangs in which I’d ridden thousands of miles on ski trips during winter and spring school vacations throughout my student years. Nostalgia, not impulse “drove” my decision.

I received ample encouragement from our two then-teen-age sons and equal skepticism from my wife. But as any long-married guy with a car fetish can attest, spousal skepticism can be easily overcome simply by doubling the price of the car. The extra money, of course, isn’t for the car that’s the subject of the fetish.

Byron, our youngest, didn’t believe that his frugal dad would actually walk—I mean drive—the talk about purchasing a brand-new Mustang, let alone a brand new anything. So when the shiny new, black Pony pulled up to the Red Cabin (where my wife and sons had spent the preceding week), Byron leaped off the back deck, yelling, “Dad bought the Mustang!”  What my wife heard was, “Now she could get a new car!”

Fast forward to my birthday a month later. As the sun was about to set on what’d been a pleasant day, Byron pleaded with me for permission to drive the Mustang to his friend’s house some six or seven miles away. Of course, I started with “No way.”

But Byron is not where he is today because he takes “no” for an answer.  He’s the master of persistence and persuasion.  Before my wife could say, “NO!” I was handing the keys over to our 16-year old son. My wife did, however, attempt to downshift my mistake by imposing strict ground rules: only Byron’s well-behaved, older, visiting country cousin could ride in the car, and the car would go only to the friend’s house . . . and back.  I added my joinder to these simple rules.

Silly me.

Soon after the Pony had backed out of the driveway, my wife and I decided to take a short walk around the neighborhood. Ten minutes into the stroll, my wife’s phone rang. “It’s Byron,” she reported, as she glanced at the screen.

From her half of the conversation I learned that the Pony had crashed. No one was hurt, but the car was a serious casualty.

Since it was my birthday, my considerate wife (not the inconsiderate one, who often appears after I’ve done something as stupid as handing the keys to a Mustang over to a 16-year old) told me she’d “deal with the accident.” I could go home and enjoy some peace and quiet in the waning hours of my “special day.”

(Cont.)

(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)

© 2021 by Eric Nilsson