The car was unmistakable. Even from around a corner I’d have a descent guess it was my dad. Noone else on the street had a car quite like that. You’d be hard pressed to find one in the whole neighborhood. Yeah, it was that cool.

Cherry red. Black leather interior. White wall tires. Black vynil convertable top. A hemi engine, whatever that means. Does anyone really know? Does it matter? No. Cause you see that car and all you can think to say is, “Ooh, Barracuda.”

Ben watched reverently as my dad piloted the mighty craft intothe driveway, whispering solemnly, “I will never own a minvan as long as I live, as Thor as my witness.”

“Thor? I thought your parents were Italian.”

Ben just shrugged, “So sue me. The Norse gods are just cooler.”

“Fair point,” I conceded, though I wouldn’t have argued much at that point, not with my dad home early. Day after day of summer fun stretched before my fertile young imagination. Then, as he stepped out of the car, I saw his face. I knew that look.