The Flying Potato

Internet, meet Betsy. Betsy, this is everybody.

Betsy is The Holbs's truck. He bought her off of some senior citizens living in a nursing home our first month in Idaho. 

Once she was parked in our driveway and we'd had a chance to get to know her properly I asked The Holbs what we should call her. He answered without hesitation, as if he'd been thinking it over all afternoon. "Her name is Betsy. Betsy The Flying Potato!"

Betsy The Flying Potato is a 1973.5 Datsun Pickup. She is the oldest member of our family and as such she deserves a certain amount of respect. She shakes like the dickens when you start her up, she rattles in the third gear, she has no power steering, no cup holders, and no seat belts. You can watch the road pass beneath you through the holes in her floor. She has four gears and when going downhill I've seen her reach speeds as high as 55 miles per hour!

She can fit three people, but only if the one in the middle straddles her gear shift in a rather inappropriate manner.

The past couple of mornings have been deathly cold here in Idaho, the kind of cold that transforms blades of grass to weaponry and steals the very breath from your lungs. The Holbs has been taking the SUV to school instead of warming up our good old Potato and taking the time to scrape the ice off her windshield.

 Poor Betsy, abandoned three days in a row by the one true love of her life, just so The Holbs can coast to school in a cushy black ride of rugged sports utility vehicleship. It's just really heartbreaking.

When I saw old Betsy sitting in the driveway this morning instead of my usual ride, Barry White (formerly known as Moniqua, but it has been explained to me by my redder half that the Xterra is actually a boy, excuuuse me), I fired off a text message.

You left me Betsy? Noooooooo!

But actually,  I love Betsy. Sure, she's inconvenient, but she is a classy old broad. Errands take on a whole new glimmer when we're out together. Her upholstery is torn but bouncy, so you kind of bob along down the road just-so. Groceries go in the back, things you don't want stolen go under the towel (Betsy doesn't really have doors that lock . . .) When it snows or rains you sometimes have to crank the windshield wipers manually with your arm out the window. You can't put a price on an experience like that!

Also you can't put more than ten dollars of gas in her tank on account of she has a hole in her tank? But yes.  People just look at me differently when I'm in Betsy. I get hit on by guys with facial hair a lot when we're together.

So when I was bustling about the kitchen later today doing nothing much in particular and I could hear her calling to me, it didn't take much to convince me to take her out for a joy ride. Don't you want a soda? she beguiled. I think you're running low on bread? And anyway I have found that there is just a certain kind of special satisfaction that you can only get from driving around an old beast while holding an icy pop in one hand, steering with your knee, switching gears with the other hand, and somehow managing not killing anybody. You know what I mean?

Today she asked me if we could go harass The Holbs at school and leave notes for him in the the other woman (who is now a man, see above). Then she wanted to deposit a check at the bank. She let me fiddle with her radio stations and didn't complain much when I almost stalled her at the corner of Sixth and Washington.

Members of our ward tell us all the time how jealous they are of our ride. We're pretty sure if we wanted to we could start a heavy bidding war over her when we leave Moscow. Part of me has already decided there is just no way we could leave her behind.

 She's family, you know? 
The kind of family to get you underwear for your birthday, okay, but still.
 Family.