THE VAN part 1

[cmdan]

A guy I know sent this to me, this is an essay or something like that, his daughter wrote about the old beat up van he drove:

I just wanted to share Emily's Story with you. Emily wrote this at the Art Institute for class. This is a true story. Jesse

English 10:10am-2:10pm
4 August 2006
The Van
A blemish on the family name is what it is: my father’s work van. Throughout middle school, I started out each morning asking the same question: “Dad, are you taking the van today?” Hesitantly looking for his keys, with his black travel mug of freshly brewed coffee in hand, my father would respond with, “What else would I take? If you want a ride, I gotta go now.” Yes, I wanted a ride, but in that? In that rusted, loud, faded red box on wheels? I hated that van. “I’ll take a ride,” I said. Under my breath I quietly mumbled, “Just drop me off down the street.”
Why couldn’t I ride in a family car like the rest of the kids at school? I desperately wanted to pull up to the archways of school in a toasty warm, clean family sedan. My dad would wish me off with a wave and a smile. I could hear him say, “Have a good day,” and quietly pull away. Instead, I was shocked back into reality with a burst of cold air from the vents of the van. Staring at food wrappers on the floor and coffee cup rings on the dashboard, I could only daydream of that toasty sedan. Hurried for time, he’d say, “I gotta go, have a good one,” and I’d hear the rumble of an elephant running off into the distance…a huge, angry-sounding elephant with a Ford emblem glued on its forehead and rear end. A blemish, I say.
This van was my dad’s pride. “Only five hundred dollars,” I’d hear over and over for many years to come. “Bought it in Washington State, drove it through the mountains, and look, it still runs great,” he’d exclaim. I was always anticipating the part about walking bare feet and the snow pop up in the conversation. Dad put many miles on the van driving to construction sites out in the countryside. Even with the grinding sound from the rough manual shifter and the thumps of an old worn muffler, if given the option of any of our five vehicles to drive, he’d choose that van. He’d choose this thing and drive it willingly with all the delight in the world.
Granted, this imperfection was our family’s sole source of income. A self employed business man in the residential and commercial electrical industry, my dad is a very intelligent man. But when it came to this particular mode of transportation, was I the only one who cringed? Am I the only one who despised having to ride and be seen in this beast? The sight of this caused me to hope, no, pray my classmates had forgotten my last name. What did that matter? If they did, they could probably still read: STAVICK ELECTRIC, in bold black font across each side. The lettering was highlighted in yellow, in case you didn’t catch it.
Compared to the inside, the outside was perfect. A 1978 Ford Econoline van had not a single luxury to offer. Never mind that this particular version, stripped for manual labor types of jobs, left not a single basic luxury. All that was left inside were dreadful paneled walls. Yes, in the belly of the monster lay outdated and unfashionable wood paneling, complete with matching doors and ceiling. In back were shelving units made of two-by-fours and plywood, therefore being used for storage. The massive unit lined the entire driver’s side of the van, and would squeak constantly while the van was in motion. Up front were two ugly, ragged, gray bucket seats for your personal comfort; they always smelled of sweaty workers and spilled coffee. These two hideously mismatched, dust filled pillows swiveled randomly, whether you willed them to or not. Not only did all of that make me uneasy riding in that monstrosity, but the air conditioning never worked. Insisting that it did work, my father would smile from ear to ear, roll out a chuckle, and roll down his window. Humorous as he thought this was, it never seemed to crack a smile on my face…Never.

[cmdan]

No matter how I felt about this abomination to mankind, I still had to ride in it. Not only ride in the fiend to school, but throughout the summer vacation, going to the lake and back. The faded red box was our largest vehicle and could hold all seven of us. Packing two enormous coolers, piles of huge colorful beach towels, my parents, and the five kids would all fit, barely. Cramped as it may have sounded, twenty minutes flew by while my siblings and I would rummage through the coolers with delight. Before heading to the lake, though, we would have one daunting task: to clean out the van. My sisters, brother and I would drag our heavy legs in dismay out to either the side or the back of the van. I loved the lake, but all of that work to get there? This ritual of emptying the van into the garage took place each time, and each time it was a show to see.
Each of us kids growling with angst would stand outside the monster, take a deep breath, and pick items proportional to our size. My petite older sisters choice was a scowl and a dirt covered drill. After putting the drill away, she’d immediately go inside to wash her manicured hands. I’d grab the miles of fluorescent orange extension cords, only because that could be thrown around without concern. I could also argue that I took more out. My stout tough little sister would choose a bucket of miscellaneous tools. She’d drag it with both hands grasping the handle tightly, sticking her tongue out, and trying with all her might. For my youngest sister’s selection was dad’s tool belt. She’d try it on and watch it drop to the ground due to the belt’s vast size and weight. We’d all drop our stuff and laugh loudly at the sight of her fighting to keep it up. As for my over eager little scrawny brother, he’d take the rest of the van and direct us ladies where everything went. This eyesore was to be his inheritance, so he thought, causing him to take extra care, as though he was an orchestra conductor, working with the greatest symphony of all time: his life’s masterpiece.
Over time, I grew up. The van started to have meaning. I would always know if the van was in the driveway, my daddy was home. It brought me a sense of security. When I would see him, driving home from work, pulling on our road, I didn’t see a faded red box on wheels, I saw my dad. The van’s appearance didn’t seem to cause shame or concern any longer. The empty wrappers and coffee cup rings on the dash seemed to just fade into the background. The paneling vanished and the smell of the vehicle took me back to all those times going to the lake. Memorable occasions, such as these, replaced all those raw feeling of awkwardness and hatred towards the van. It wasn’t just a van; it was a part of our family, the Stavick family. The elephant now represented my dad and all he worked for, not only for him, but for my family. Why I hated this van as a young teenager was understandable, but as for this grown and proud twenty-something daughter, I can now say without wavering…I love that van.