A Song For My Suburban
A Song for My Suburban
Oh beautiful for spacious seats,
For lots and lots of room,
With places for eight children’s feet,
Both friends and from my womb.
My Suburban, my Suburban,
I pledge my love to thee.
The finest car where ere you are,
And you back end can hold a tree.
The lovely song above is to be sung, symbolically enough, to America the Beautiful, the essential American song for the essential American car, perhaps the finest vehicle to ever come off the Detroit assembly line.
Yes, it uses too much of America’s precious carbon fuels. But who really cares how much gas it takes to run? Does anyone begrudge a perfect diamond a beautiful setting? Do we care if George Clooney wears make-up in his movies? No, some things just ARE the way they are.
But oh, my ‘Burb with it’s sleek green sides towering above the piddling fuel savers milling about at mid-tire level as we make our dignified, careful way along the road of life. When you change lanes in a Suburban, there’s no reeling from lane to lane. Ahead is the long road, and you, you must choose where you will place yourself and stay there, stay the course, because an SUV from GMC is a meaningful automotive statement.
The forest green of the outside is echoed in the smooth grey leather seats, still plump and luxurious after ten years of dogs and Quarter Pounders and hot fudge sundaes.
There are row upon row of these seats which I can remove for broad, open plains where I can lay six flats of flowers or a tree or three roasting pans of barbequed meat from the butcher’s and still have enough room for one of them to tip over. It’s like having an enclosed patio off your living room.
This car can hold it all. Right now though, it’s full of memories. Right after we got it, we drove to the east coast to see my favorite aunt before she died. My first glimpse of Maine, my first glimpse of her as she stood at the kitchen counter making salad, thinking she was my mother they looked so much alike.
There are memories of field trips with two of the three seats full of kids I didn’t know and endless, horrible music on the radio. I feel the urgency of racing to school with forgotten homework and costumes for plays. There are still occasional crumbs from hard rolls and pedals from long ago centerpieces. Boxes of castoffs for garage sales, groceries for homecomings and baby showers.
California is the place to drive a Suburban because no one, but no one, has anything that big and you always feel safe no matter how mad they are at you, The Utah Driver. No signal, no problem. Can’t remember whether you take the 10 East or the 10 West, just slow down while one of you checks it on the map.
And now its last days are here and soon it will go, and with it will go my past. I’ll wind up with a Granny Car, a Cadillac, with soft upholstery and a raised driver’s seat so I can see over the wheel; or something efficient and sporty, suitable for showing that even though my hair is grey, albeit dyed, I’m still young at heart. People will avoid me, or whiz past me and glare because I’m only going 20 on the highway. It will be clean and no one will spill the drips from the chocolate shell on a dip cone.
I won’t be able to fit my whole life into these cars. Or, worst of all, maybe I will.
Oh beautiful for spacious seats,
For lots and lots of room,
With places for eight children’s feet,
Both friends and from my womb.
My Suburban, my Suburban,
I pledge my love to thee.
The finest car where ere you are,
And you back end can hold a tree.
The lovely song above is to be sung, symbolically enough, to America the Beautiful, the essential American song for the essential American car, perhaps the finest vehicle to ever come off the Detroit assembly line.
Yes, it uses too much of America’s precious carbon fuels. But who really cares how much gas it takes to run? Does anyone begrudge a perfect diamond a beautiful setting? Do we care if George Clooney wears make-up in his movies? No, some things just ARE the way they are.
But oh, my ‘Burb with it’s sleek green sides towering above the piddling fuel savers milling about at mid-tire level as we make our dignified, careful way along the road of life. When you change lanes in a Suburban, there’s no reeling from lane to lane. Ahead is the long road, and you, you must choose where you will place yourself and stay there, stay the course, because an SUV from GMC is a meaningful automotive statement.
The forest green of the outside is echoed in the smooth grey leather seats, still plump and luxurious after ten years of dogs and Quarter Pounders and hot fudge sundaes.
There are row upon row of these seats which I can remove for broad, open plains where I can lay six flats of flowers or a tree or three roasting pans of barbequed meat from the butcher’s and still have enough room for one of them to tip over. It’s like having an enclosed patio off your living room.
This car can hold it all. Right now though, it’s full of memories. Right after we got it, we drove to the east coast to see my favorite aunt before she died. My first glimpse of Maine, my first glimpse of her as she stood at the kitchen counter making salad, thinking she was my mother they looked so much alike.
There are memories of field trips with two of the three seats full of kids I didn’t know and endless, horrible music on the radio. I feel the urgency of racing to school with forgotten homework and costumes for plays. There are still occasional crumbs from hard rolls and pedals from long ago centerpieces. Boxes of castoffs for garage sales, groceries for homecomings and baby showers.
California is the place to drive a Suburban because no one, but no one, has anything that big and you always feel safe no matter how mad they are at you, The Utah Driver. No signal, no problem. Can’t remember whether you take the 10 East or the 10 West, just slow down while one of you checks it on the map.
And now its last days are here and soon it will go, and with it will go my past. I’ll wind up with a Granny Car, a Cadillac, with soft upholstery and a raised driver’s seat so I can see over the wheel; or something efficient and sporty, suitable for showing that even though my hair is grey, albeit dyed, I’m still young at heart. People will avoid me, or whiz past me and glare because I’m only going 20 on the highway. It will be clean and no one will spill the drips from the chocolate shell on a dip cone.
I won’t be able to fit my whole life into these cars. Or, worst of all, maybe I will.
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