In the lane beside us, the elderly driver of the two-door ’55 chevy revved his engine. We stepped on the gas pedal in the van to sidle closer. Somebody had done a sweet restoration on the thing. Talk about shiny.
“Look kids!” we purred. And the four of us ogled out the windows.
With the help of our fingers, we breathed reverently over the age of that car. Fifty-six years old. A real gem.
We did the same math for the van. Oohh…five years old. Think how cool our car’ll be in fifty years.
At which time our daughter spoke. “Maybe when you guys die, I can have the van.”