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Gramma, God rest her soul, bought me a car when I turned 16.
Gramma was from the old country, and thought she was a shrewd bargainer.
Well, a family in her congregation at the Lutheran church had a car for sale.
And she thought she had made the deal of the century.
Bear in mind, Gramma didn't consider that I was (and remain) 6'3".
She was so happy, and I couldn't bring myself to say anything.
She bought me a Dodge Omni.
The car was, shall I say, modified.
For a girl.
A short girl.
The gas, clutch, and brake pedal arms had been extended by 4 inches.
The seat supports had been raised by 3 inches.
And it had a custom paint job.
Red plaid.
With pink upholstery.
My father made a deal with me.
"Keep the car for 6 months, until she forgets about it, and I'll get you a car."
The car sat behind the house for six months, and only moved to visit Gramma.
After six months, I was able to rid myself of the Omni, and got a Bronco.
I was going to get a Crown Vic, but couldn't get used to being in the front seat.
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We must all go through a rite of passage. It must be physical, it must be painful, and it must leave a mark.
I have no knowledge of the events which you are describing, and if I did have knowledge of them,
I would be unable to discuss them with you now or at any future period.
 
Don't waste your time always searching for those wasted years
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