We have a good friend who owns a
1956 Ford Thunderbird roadster convertible.
Two-seater, with the continental kit; turquoise blue, 312 V8 engine.
Every time DH sees it he almost cries.
When DH finally told our friend about his admiration for the little blue baby,
Said Friend told him to come get the keys and take it for a spin.
So on a warm summer evening my honey
pulled up in the driveway to take me out on a hot date.
We went for a cruise through the country, wind in the hair,
sun glasses, waving at anyone who stared—the whole bit.
Then we drove down
Main Street and waved at more people,
got yelled at by some kids on skate boards and got a thumbs-up
from another one of our friends, a police officer in his patrol car.
DH was in hot rod heaven.
I kinda liked it too.
We stopped to get something to eat at a hamburger stand.
I had a pastrami grinder—hold the mayo.
We share a side of fries—fresh cut Idaho Russets with fry sauce.
Then back in our cool ride for another cruise. It was FUN, FUN, FUN.
Only one complaint—no cup holder.
No we won't be buying the T-bird.
Yes, convertibles do a number on a head of hair,
but we're just grateful to have hair at this point.
Nostalgia is like a grammar lesson:
you find the present tense, but the past perfect.