God Had Other Plans

1967. A pink '59 Cadillac. With gorgeous chrome-laden tail fins. Yes, I said Pink. The two squirrels sitting inside were trying to use it As a girl magnet. The owner was 15. Not licensed yet. My third or fourth cousin was driving it. Wearing a brownish-black chauffeur cap. They were giggling like loons, and the inside smelled like cigars. Because they were smoking. We knew this because every time they passed us, they would stop and yell, "Hey, Twins, want a ride?" If there is anything I hated being called, it was Twin. They passed us about sixty times Stopping about sixty times. They didn't have a chance. I was dead set against them. The arrogant non-cousin, who was sitting in the back smoking cigars, and doing most of the yelling was the little creep who told Miss Kneeland in first grade "I'm going to grow up and marry her." Marry me? I wasn't going to marry anybody except maybe daddy, certainly not some boy. God had another plan. We lived two miles from this place. We did not have umbrellas or raincoats. There was a downpour of rain. We were getting wet, and our mother had not answered the telephone. This was before we carried them, remember? It certainly did not help that I had A twin sister who would get in the car with anybody. Naturally, she was begging me to get in. So here I am fifty-one years later wishing we still had that '59 pink Cadillac with the chrome-laden tail fins.