When I think about Father's Day I think about my father and his cars.
The first car I can remember was a not-so-pretty Plymouth. I also remember daddy taking us in it for long rides on long summer nights and melting ice cream running down my arm, pooling in the seat underneath me.
Then there were the Impalas -- a green one and a white one. They were different model years and the only time daddy owned two cars at once. I was envious when my older sister slid behind the wheel of the green Impala beside daddy for her first driving lesson. I still tease her about how in our driveway, her lead foot sent one Impala plowing into the back of the other one.
I did my share of damage, too. The ink had barely dried on my new driver's license when I scraped the side of our Pontiac Bonneville against the telephone pole next to the entrance of our driveway.
And there are tales of two Oldsmobile Cutlass Supremes.
One went up in flames after a neighbor kid tossed a lit fire cracker into it; daddy had an accident in the other on the icy December day that my mother died.
My daddy was a patient man. He never got too upset about life's mishaps but he always made sure his car insurance was paid.