The Flying Potato

Betsy The Flying Potato in the Great and Terrible Storm of '07

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. They asked $700 for her and she was in near perfect condition, if you could get the wasps out of the engine. I remember eyeing that starchy truck warily as The Holbs ironed out the finer points of the deal with the shriveled eighty-year-old man wearing suspenders and a trucker hat. In my purple pumps I think I had him by an inch and a half. Wasps buzzed and swarmed about the cab, startling us away whenever we tried to get a closer look at her upholstery. "You could take her for a test drive, if you're sure you're not allergic to the stings." The Holbs proffered the cash with triumph in his eyes and then we were invited in for crackers and lemonade. While we perched on doilied cushions and gingerly flipped through the antiqued and yellowed pages of the owner's manual the crinkly old man told us all about his life as an accountant in Lewiston in the fifties, his sons who live in Portland, and about the day he purchased her on the Datsun lot in 1973. I drove The Holbs to buy a can of Raid and after he'd blasted the ever loving daylights out of her freeloaders we took her home.

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. I have no idea what the point-five means, do you? Betsy 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, 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 . . . apparently the kind of cold that makes The Holbs check his manhood at the door and drive 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 this week 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, isn't it?

Also but The Holbs has been "forgetting" to feed the dogs in the morning due I assume to the low temperatures and I am sorry sir but that is just where I draw the line.

Incidentally and not at all related to the matter at hand whatsoever is this: Lately when the dogs have been outside terrorizing the neighbors for too long and are on the brink of becoming feral we've had to bribe them to come inside by offering them a treat. PETE WANT A TREAT?is how it goes, and then they barrel inside like a couple of hungry teenagers. Only but we have no intention of giving them treats, you see. So lately The Holbs has had a pang of conscience and has started to inform them once they have reached the threshold that their treat will be getting to sleep on a warm bed, or that their treat will be getting breakfast in the morning, or that their treat is that he won't kill them for being a couple of punks. I am trying to decide if this is really fair behavior and whether someday our dogs might finally figure us out and then stage an open rebellion. And then what will we do?

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!

I let The Holbs feel my wrath because that's kind of fun sometimes but let's be honest with ourselves. I love Betsy. Sure, she's inconvenient, but she is a classy old broad you know. 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 window, stick your arm out and move the windshield wipers manually. You can't put a price on an experience like that. Also you can't put more than ten dollars of gas in her on account of she has a hole in her tank, but you know what, she's worth it. People just look at me differently when I'm in Betsy. I get hit on a disproportionate amount when we're together. What can I say? She's a total flirt. She's a guy magnet.

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, 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. Practical, that one. 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 kickin ride. We're pretty sure if we wanted to we could start a heavy bidding war over her when we leave Moscow. But 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.

And anyway, Betsy is our Idaho. I'm kind of fond of my Idaho.

****

Tell me I'm not the only one to name my cars?

Also, Betsy and I would like to thank you kindly

for all of the wonderful comments you've left me.

Betsy thinks you're rather sweet.

I think I am in love with you.

****

Also, Happy Birthday to Britney Spears today.

I don't know how or why I know that.