I drive a purple truck. A twelve year old purple truck. A twelve year old purple truck with a dinged back bumper that's missing a passenger side mirror. And I still love it.
Someone had special ordered it, low options, two door sport, economical rear-wheel drive, and then abandoned it. No one wanted it; no one but me. It's as if I'd placed the order myself. My favorite color, it was perfect. It was me. Funky-rural, rural-freaky, my purple truck.
Back when I bought it, my boss owned a truck nick named "The Beast". Somehow someone in the office took the idea and applied it. "The Grape" it has been ever since. The Grape has been around, crowded with people, product, equipment, instruments, camping gear, presents, wine, groceries, goodies, ten miles or a thousand. It's been wrecked, resurrected, admired, cursed and praised. Secrets kept silent, music played loud, memories remain. Yes, The Grape has been a good friend.
Though it's aging, I just can't give it up. I've looked at Vues and Equinoxes, Trailblazers and Rav4's, but none of them are quite me. Middle aged, a little dinged up, but still rural-funky-freaky, music blaring, people staring; I am my old purple truck.