If we did move to the country, the little silver two-door would be traded in for the above (or similar).
Trucks, of the vintage persuasion, can have magic, too.
When I was a young girl and learning to drive, my father took me out in the family minivan. Later, I managed to fail my driver's test by crashing the new Volvo into the parallel parking markers. (Not to imply this was the result of my father's teaching.)
And one time, my neighbor and teacher, Mr. P., allowed me to drive Old Blue.
The proud owner of this comfortable, easy blue pick-up truck would likely be aghast that I know neither the make nor model -- never mind the year --- of Old Blue. I'll say she was a 1960 Chevy, because it sounds nice. Her grill was cream-colored against the navy-blue of the body, and the leather bench seat was cracked and warm against bare legs. She was a solid, old truck. It was an honor to drive her down "Swervey-Swerve."
It'd be rather awesome to have an Old Blue of my own. To run the garbage out to the country dump.
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