Ice Flow

I have memories of cold vinyl seats. I have memories of frost on the inside of a frigid station wagon. I have memories of just how special a treat it was to be allowed to go out in the morning and start up the car before we all got a ride into school. Blessed as we were with cars equipped with automatic transmissions, it was a fairly simple operation. I got the keys. I put on layers of clothes to the extreme, and footwear that could withstand the sub-freezing temperatures. Then, out the front door I went.
This was a privilege. Sometimes, there was even loud discussion about which of the boys would be allowed to venture out into the frozen tundra. I liked the responsibility. I liked the power. I liked to turn the defroster up on high and watch the ice disappear. And yes, there was a large portion of "pretending to drive" mixed in there, but I wasn't supposed to put it in gear. I could play the radio, once the engine was started and the battery was charging and I had no real interest in going back out into the snow. I sat there and waited for the world inside to warm past freezing. The seats no longer crackled beneath me, and the rear window defroster made a pattern that looked a little like loose leaf notebook paper.
Then it was time to go to school. Time to give up control of the mother ship. Time to renew my passenger status. Years later, when it was my own car, I had no one to send out to warm up the Vega. There was no thrill in starting my own vehicle. I sat there and shivered. I turned the radio up loud, and waited for the winter to be over.