There's something about the 1959 Cadillac. You've seen them, in museums or antique car shows or mounted on the walls of retro cafes. They're the long, ll-lo-on-ng-gg ones with twin, bullet shaped tail lights mounted halfway up their rear fins, the epitome of Detroit engineering extravegance.
My mother drove one, a bright red convertible with black leather interior. It handled like a dream, or like a swan on a calm lake. She called it her "canoe." We moved a lot in the early years of her marriage, back and forth across the northern United States at least six times, she in her canoe with one of us girls beside her and Dad either ahead or behind in his sedate sedan with the other two. Truckers and single guys in all kinds of cars would see the pretty blonde in that snazzy car and weave in and out and around her, trying to get her attention. Sometimes she'd wave, especially to the old guys, but mostly she just sailed on down the road.
I suspect that, if we get really do get our choice of heaven, instead of wings and a halo, Mother will opt for the open highway in her red canoe.
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