Bob is Dead, Long Live Bob!

I'm scheduled to take a road trip to visit my daughter in college, and she wants me to leave the 22 year old VW with her so she can road trip back after graduation. Not having any way to refuse this reasonable but very father-tweaking request (very technically, it might be called her car, though in name only, not Title!), I was therefore somewhat bemused today as I was hurrying out the door to find that Bob is dead.

Bob's my daughter's name for the car, some annoying way she developed of signaling her unwillingness to answer my fatherly questions. I think it had something to do with Bob Dylan, and other things that Daddy's think their daughters ought to know about. I guess it became the (non)answer to everything, and finally the obvious name for the car.

So this morning, for whatever reason, I looked a little further into the question of why the seat latch wouldn't release so that I could place my laptop case behind it. The seat was loose I noticed, and then a peek underneath while wiggling revealed that the entire floor was falling out. 

So when I made my daily random hour-ish long commute out along the East North East-ish spoke of my backroads mandala, I had to notice a new sense to the motion of my seat; kind of rocking toward breakthrough, as the car bounds along. And it does bound, its springs are squat and the road now frost heave potted.

It makes for a kind of excitement! And sadness too, as I've been wondering when this one hoss shay might return to dust, sure hoping for one heap, and all at once (dream on)!

Well, I'll continue to drive it, and happily, as I wonder the same about my crisis-point body. Only last night switching to salad and bread, out of some anxiousness to get my thoughts down first before the feeding. I am at that certain age where floorpan rots and pipes clog and all the rest.

Though I did think that I'd better check the obits for old Bobby Dylan, who's rockin' still for so far as I know. I heard him live not long ago, among whirling dervish Dead Heads, who baffled me then as much as blogging does now.

I went rollicking past a sign this morning, late for a meeting stuck behind school buses, about "Stoney Lonesome" Vineyards and Winery.  That's another name my daughter came up with, making fun of where I live. We found an old car impossibly deep in the woods, ingrown with trees which seemed they must have been there when the car was driven in and abandoned. This was no model T, but of a vintage for that old man we saw pedalling slowly along the hills when I first moved here. He might even have been that old friend of Dad, whom I never did meet before he passed away, though he lived within a walk. 

We called him Stoney Lonesome, and considered the old red car to have been his. After the name of a road near here, which was in turn after a name for the pokey (Pokey Moonshine being another road).

Gaol, jail, goal, death, resurrection and release. These are themes I drive among, along and through, whistling that it feels like spring! (I got lucky the other day on my blog)