White Lightening

A silly little ditty from an in-class writing prompt (5 minutes of writing): "Write about an ordinary place in your life (your home, a room in your home, your yard, your car, etc.) and how it transcends the ordinary into something more meaningful to you." Of course I wrote about you-know-who.

My bright-white Honda Odyssey minivan is, without a doubt, the nicest thing I have ever owned. White Lightening, as he is known on the streets and as he zooms teenaged girls around town, joined the Lynch family on February 29, 2012. He's a Leap Baby, and my baby he is.

Long ago, I accepted the fact that, as a driver of a minivan, I no longer turned the head of any man. Of any age. At any stop light. Ever. I've since given in completely to the decidedly unsexy vehicle I call my own. To me, White Lightening is perfect. In his console, I keep his feather duster, so his dash is always sparkling. "Grab your trash!" I sing each time the girls exit the super-fancy, smooth automatic doors. White Lightening's sound system is stellar, and he practically bounces with joy when six teenagers rock out to Katy Perry or, in my rare moments alone, I cruise to the bass-throbbing Fiddy Cent.

Mostly, though, I love my little White Lightening because he reminds me how far I've come since Kibbles and Bits, my 1980 faded-yellow, overly dented, unairconditioned Subaru station wagon that was my faithful first car. I loved Kibbles (as only I called him), of course, and yes, my arms were rockin' thanks to the absence of power steering and windows. But White Lightening . . . well, now, that's adulthood. That's good fortune and a tiny symbol or reminder to be thankful. That's a commercialized, materialistic, groovy blessing parked right in my driveway.