Day one of life I met the van. The maroon paint heated like an iron under the determined July sun. Its carpet and roof lining had an equivalent to a baby lamb’s fresh wool, pure, cream, and clean. The pleather had few scuffs and indentations. The windshield was easily cleansed by the neon blue liquid ejected by the wipers. The customized sign “PLEASE NO TAILGATING” added fear in some road travelers, and gave others a reason to tailgate. It had new roads to travel in 1997, just like me. Caretaking to me, the Chevy Astro Van made me its passenger as frequently as possible being that I was its new love. The van allowed me to encounter heights and depths of this earth that some may never ponder, exposing me to memories and knowledge that marinate in my mind still today.

The five members of my family and I bustled through the Orlando baggage claim soon to find ourselves secure in the Astro van always operated by my smiling grandpa. I was a clueless kid, unaware of my newfound surroundings in the vast Florida night. I managed to prop my head on my dad’s shoulder and drift to dreamland while hearing the smooth hum of the engine rolling on the interstate.  I became aroused by the stillness of the vehicle in the driveway of my grandparents’ rental home. The fogginess of my sleep disappeared as I jumped out of the car and into the unexplored territory. The house happened to hold warm cookies that created an aroma of chocolate childhood goodness. The week consisted of making 30 minute trips to Disney in the hot and sticky car air making it hard to breathe until the air conditioning would kick in, relieving our tempers. My grandpa would place his left rough elbow worn from years of work on the built in armrest just above the driver’s door. The elbow’s resting place started to form a central crack and some of the foam below exposed itself. In the glove compartment lied dozens of maps of Florida, the midwest, and all of conus, all memorized by my grandpa. He had a gift for memorizing maps because of his previous life as a train transportation analyst. He would love to quiz me on the direction we headed. Luckily for me, the van had an installed compass  located below the vintage mirror that would provide me a direction in a neon blue color. Whenever a sunny day came in the van, one would expect him to elongate his arm while driving to one of the three compartments for his dark sleek shades that he would attach onto his bulky brassed rimmed bifocals.

The van would randomly stop over at my house for its next big adventure with my grandpa and grandma. Occasionally it would head to Barnes and Noble, but more often than not we would go to Chuck E. Cheese’s. When we would enter the germ fest, my grandpa would pay for all of our tokens and then watch our little minds run wild. When I would go to the skee ball game and “bowl” with my grandma, I could not help but glance back at my grandpa to see what occupied his time. He sat patiently at a corner table while gently scratching his mustache. Glancing at his “brain book” for his upcoming schedule of the day, he circled important doctor’s appointments and oil changes, then he checked his new watch from the local walmart. He allowed us to take soda to go in the little kiddie cups and the fizzy bubbles automatically escaped my body and the cup while in the bouncy pothole ride home. The sugary drink remains, normally left in the deep hidden compartments of the car, made it nearly impossible for my grandpa to clean.  Another fun summer day, I thought, as I peered out what felt like bullet proof windows and into the slowly disappearing beaming sun that smiled goodbye until tomorrow. 

“Dad look what I found in Grandpa’s van!!” I gleefully said as I proudly thrusted my hands with nine pennies in them toward my dad.

“That’s great Kayla! Keep saving! Try to get the silver ones like your sister next time.” He would reply, trying to be enthusiastic.

A scavenger hunt greeted me every time I would step into the van. Hidden in the crevices of the trunk, under the floor mats, beneath the fuzzy coverings of the drivers seat, and in between cracks in the foldable cloth seats, coins, aged and rusty, scattered across the floor. The set rule: if you find it, then you can keep it. As a kid quantity always felt like you got more so often times I thought I had become the richest girl in the world if I found nine pennies and a dime compared to my sister’s one quarter. I quickly learned.

A certain Friday in 4th grade the van appeared in my blacktop driveway. It had become a tradition to go to Boston Market to relieve my mom of cooking and cleaning for the night. My mom, who thinks pouring milk into cereal is considered cooking, is not known for delicious mouth watering meals, so everyone enjoyed this treat. The forecast for that day became a slight pitter patter of rain like a kitten prowling across wool carpet, but it quickly turned into a thunderous leopard that attacked its prey and slowly eating its ripe flesh. The rain continued to pounce on the metal roof, violating my secure feelings that I longed for. But I knew that my fears got the best of me, unless this rain turned acidic,  I would stay safe by the van sheltering my siblings and I.  As we veered into the left turning lane adjacent to the parking lot of the destination, I felt harmony in the fact that I sat in the van rather than getting pelted with drops of abandonment. 

Elegant colors, royally bold gold and whimsical orange, lavished the van as they draped over the roof and windshield through the winding pathways of the assorted groups of trees. The van, able to see so many wonders like Europe, the States and Asia, but that was one of the more beautiful moments for it to fathom. My grandpa abled us to get in for free because he worked at Morton Salt for numerous years. He would park the van where it would wait for our return, and my grandpa patiently sat on the stony benches as I rustled through the bushes of the maze. Occasionally peering out of the lookout tower, I’d glance down toward his vicinity to see if he could peer up at me. He and I would normally stroll through the scarecrows as everyone else would skitter ahead. The day would end in longevity with a nap in the back seat of the van. 

Three years ago in November the van broke down for the third time. When I looked at the van precisely, I came across details that I had overshadowed in the past. I had shoved and crammed the nuances to the back of my mind so they could not stay present during the ride. The mechanic had no hope in his voice as he pointed out the flakey, ripley, metal rust that coated the tire rims, the sliding side door that easily stuck on its scratchy hinges leaving it unable to shut completely, and the broken air conditioner from summers of over exhaustion. A car wash, simple and quick, could not fix the multitude of problems that had risen from time.

Three years ago in November my grandpa had gotten sick for the third time.  When I looked at him precisely, I came across details that I had overshadowed in the past.  I had shoved and crammed the nuances to the back of my mind so they could not be present during the ride of life.  The doctor had no hope in his voice as he notified my family that he did not know how much time my grandpa had left. It could be days from now, weeks, or years. The stroke had left his radio unable to play, only occasional words stutter into the body of the car.  His engine grinds with pain as he tries to rotate aching bony joints, limber with age.  The exhaust pipe is clogged due to months of immobility.  The windshield is foggy with mildew that has layered over, creating a thickened flem on the exterior prohibiting any passengers to see to the right.  A car wash, simple and quick, could not fix the multitude of problems that had risen from time. 

The van has been passed on. 

My elbow rests in the carved crevices, worn from the blistering sun and pressure from my grandpa’s weathered elbow.  The sun rests upon my cheek as I picture a life without my grandpa, without the van.  But I physically cannot and don’t ever want to, because he has not left; for now, the van can still drive.  It has been a fast ride through the 17 years but the road keeps going for me. The van, still the same car, but now a different driver has all of the responsibility. Now I ride the van with pride because that is what my grandpa would have done and that is what the memorable van deserves.  When I get an opportunity to visit my grandpa, I say my goodbyes every time, knowing that it could have been my last time seeing him.  When I ride the van now, I can feel my grandpa’s lingering presence in the back seat, reminding me of gratefulness.  He looks up at me like I used to do to him, enjoying the views and new memories that the van presents to all of its passengers. Long after the van takes its final mile and my grandpa his final breath, the beautiful memories that I have experienced in their presence will live on through the tattered paths, the slick roads, the icy streets, the clear highways, the fender benders and U-turns because they deserve to be reminisced.

Any moment now, we are expecting a call saying that his engine can no longer start. The engine and heart might stop, but the memories keep on traveling.