Buicks

(Our dad died today.  This is one of the last conversations I had with him.)

“You can’t beat a Buick.”

My dad said this while we were watching the Bears and the Eagles play football.  My dad and I both love cars, and love to talk about them.  Dad went with me when I bought my first car, a 1959 white Chevy Impala.   Remember those big fins?  I wanted that car so badly.  But it cost $200 more than I could afford.  Dad said to the dealer, “Tell you what, you pay $100 and I’ll pay $100, and the boy will have his car.”  The dealer said, “Fair enough.”  And I had my first car.

“You love those Buicks, don’t you Dad?”

“Best ride on the road, Buicks.  American made too!”

“I don’t know about that Dad.”

“Buicks are made in America,” he insisted.

“No, I mean about Buicks being the best ride on the road.  I don’t know about Buicks being the best ride on the road.”

“Don’t argue cars with a dying man,” he said.  That’s what he said, “Don’t argue cars with a dying man.”

I laughed.  “You think you get to win every argument now because you’re dying?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I think that’s right.”

“Okay then,” I said.

“Okay then,” he said.  “Buicks got the best ride on the road.”

“No doubt about it,” I said.

He reached up, adjusted the oxygen tube fitted into his nostrils, looked over at me and turned up the sides of his mouth in the tiniest of smiles.  “Love those Buicks,” he said.