When I was a teenager, many, many moons ago, no just kidding, it wasn't all that long ago, oh who am I kidding, it was like 30 years ago. Man, I am getting old. Anyway, back to my story. My dad owned a 1931 Model "A" Ford.

Now, the car wasn't in mint condition by any means. My dad came across it in a field somewhere. I remember the paint job was a rust and green colour. The rust wasn't actually a colour, it was real rust. The interior was, oh wait, there was no interior, it had been eaten away by mice many years ago. There were springs sticking up on a wooden platform though so I guess you could classify that as the interior.

Every waking single momemt my dad had, he was out working on that car. He was in his glory. He loved it. Over the years, and I mean years, that car went from what I described above to an actual running automobile. My dad did an awesome job on that car. I was very proud of him for his dedication and perseverance and hard work. It took many, many hours of sweat and labour on my dad's part and I can tell you, he loved that car so much.

So, what happened to his little green car? Well, stories floated around that Mom made him sell it. I know my dad, I know he was heartbroken when he had to get rid of that car. I just don't understand about women and cars. Apparently my grandmother did the same thing to my grandfather. My grandfather had the coolest little Firebird ever, a 1967 Firebird. Man, that was some awesome car. Grandmother made him get rid of it. Now, I am a woman, and I am from the same blood as my mother and my grandmother but I can tell you, if my husband owned a cool car like a '31 Model A Ford or a 1967 Firebird, there is no way I'm getting him to sell it. No way on this earth. I would drive it instead.

I own the closest thing to a Firebird that I'm ever going to get. I own a 1993 Pontiac Sunbird convertible. It is an awesome car. I love that car. That car is not leaving me that is for sure. Anywhere I go, my car is going.