I was first exposed to the idea of actually owning a convertible when I was 10, or maybe I was 9 years old. It was the summer before fifth grade when my dad invited me to go with him on a road trip, in his racing green two-seater, low-to-the-ground JaguarXKE, to visit two of my older brothers in Prescott, Arizona.
To this day, I’ve never known why my dad asked me, child number 10 out of 11, to tag along with him. And I’ve never asked. Nor, have I ever complained.
The best memory from that trip is picture perfect, ingrained forever in my thoughts. We were driving down a stretch of highway, my semi-long, brown hair whipping at my face. Oh, boy was I loving it! I looked over at my dad, saw that his grey-ish ponytail was trying so hard to let loose, lashing about like a horse’s tail trying to swat a fly. “I love riding in this car!” I screamed, so he could hear me. “This is so fun!” My dad smiled at me, a knowing smile, as if to say, ‘Me, too. Me, too.’
I told my dad that when I grew up I was going to get a convertible, just like him. He gave me a brief speech about choosing a car. I listened intently, considering the guy was a college professor and was pretty much on-point about everything.
“A convertible isn’t for everyone,” he started. “A lot of people buy one just to look good, but then discover that they hate driving with the top down. They hate their hair getting messed up, and the blast of wind in their face. So, if you do find yourself ready to purchase a convertible someday, make sure you really want it.”
Years later, with much thought, and with a head full of my dear ‘ol dad, I bought my first convertible. And what a purchase it was! Of late, I am driving my second convertible. It’s exhilarating to lower the beige soft-top, press the accelerator, and whoosh!, let the wind whip my hair every-which-way.
I’m pretty sure my dad smiles down on me, quite often, watching me zooooooom along, wind in my face, satisfied.