Mercury Marquis

She asked if I’d driven. 

Of course I’ve driven. I’m 12. I’m am tiny, fiery and sassy, but I’ve driven. 

I’ve driven a mini bike that we had to run start, a scooter, a skateboard, a 4 wheeler, a 1990 Polaris Indy Sport—440, and a big dog of a 1970-something Polaris that needed a glittery helmet to feel like you’d made the right decade. 

When my auntie Karen asked if I’d driven, my answer was a resounding yes! In her ask, she never mentioned a vehicle of any kind. She’d simply asked if I’d driven. So I wasn’t lying, when I said yes. 

My family farmed. During harvest, the tractor or combine would get left in the field overnight if the work needed to be completed in the morning. On this particular afternoon, auntie needed her car brought to my grandparents farm. I, being the only human around, was tasked with driving the car the 2 miles from the field to my grandparents farm, so she could drive the tractor.

“You’ll go slow—only 15 mph—not even a mile over—do you understand?!” she said in her way. The way, that made you understand, you better not even think about any other way. I nodded in agreement. 

I pushed the brake like I’d seen her do 1,000’s of times. I shifted into D and hit the gas. Oops. That was fast. I love speed. Go slow, I reminded myself. I started down the gravel. I slowed at each turn and made them successfully. 

I was driving. And according to me, not for the first time. 

My aunts car was a brand new Mercury Grand Marquis. It was white with a luxurious velour interior. In my mind the velvet is maroon, but it’s been so long, who can say what color it actually was. It was the only car they ever bought that wasn’t a Chevy or Ford. The car was a thing of beauty. The chrome trim polished to high gloss both inside and out. I was smitten. 

When I began to journal about this event, I  texted Shari to ask her about details the car, she exclaimed, “I loved that car!”. 

I also loved that car. Riding it and driving it. 

I got to the final turn before my grandparents farm and I made it. At the end of their driveway, conveniently lined with swamp on both sides, I made a very WIDE turn. Wider than I should have. 

The front end of that old Merc hung precariously over the edge of the driveway and partially into that marshy edge. I tightened my grip on the wheel, knowing full well I was in Karen’s rear view. I steered sharply to the right and jammed the gas. My grandparents driveway was crushed asphalt, heated up and crushed into hard pack in the Minnesota heat. That asphalt, saved my asphalt. My right front tire gained traction, and my left front tire kicked up swamp water and grass. My Nascar steering cleared me of that swamp completely. The polished car now dripping with filth and grasses.

I finished coming up the driveway, heart beating visibly, below my now sweaty t shirt. 

My aunt, throwing equipment into park, came at me, “I thought you’d driven!” 

“I have auntie”, I said, “I’ve driven the 4 wheeler, the mini bike, the snowmobiles!” I retorted hotly, seemingly more brave than I felt.

Baaaahhhhhaaaaa!!! She doubled over in laughter. I blew out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Honey. It’s not the same. You could’ve been hurt. I’m glad you made it. Good job!”

That car. That drive. That swamp. I never did hear the end of that story—it still gets brought up from time to time. When my aunt died in 2020, I couldn’t very well let the story die with her. If a story is in you, it must come out. So here I am, self deprecating and real, sharing my story.