Jalopy: a favorite word of mine.
My childhood ranged a series of jalopies.
Somehow, my Father scraped enough together to get a used Ford Capri.
This being the family car from 1980-1983.
Bucket seats, knobs, leather.
A tapedeck that played a “Kenny Rogers Greatest Hits” album, ad infinitum.
An air freshener that smelled of magic, and freshness.
Having a jalopy, unburdened my maternal Uncle Kevin;
Because we did not ask him to borrow his Plymouth Valiant to go to the “Clownie House”.
The “Clownie House” is where we would go for respite and sustenance after picking up my Maternal Grandmother from her Saturday job at Jordan Marsh in Framingham.
Peanut shells cast about on the floor, an allergists nightmare.
A big screen displayed playing old time movies.
Beef hot dogs with french fries.
A real family restaurant.
Those in New England will remember it as “The Ground Round”, not the “Clownie House”.
But, that’s what we called it.
Saturdays were the best days.
Trips outside of our second floor apartment.
When weather permitted, windows down.
Hair blowing in the magnificent breeze,
Trusting that no matter where we went, our Father knew how to get there,
And, would always get us home.
Sometimes with bundles of food.
Squeezed into a jalopy and ready for whatever came to us.
I really love that word.