Getting off The Band Wagon

I called it “The Band Wagon.” It looks like any well-used minivan, but it is special to me. It took us to Montana many times, and when Dad was still alive, it carried him to the 4th of July Parade. My kids learned to drive behind that wheel. It was a school bus, an ambulance, a mercy transport, and a workhorse. It carried lumber and fixtures from the home-improvement store. At Christmas it smelled of pine after we used it to carry home many a memorable tannenbaum. When it was brand new, we accidentally drove it in a parade through Reno. Instead of hiding our faces, we decided to open the sliding doors, crank up the music, and wave to bystanders.

So why did I call it “The Band Wagon?” It was because of Selah 7, my son John's high school band, formed when he was just 15. Since the guys were too young to drive, Lenny and I drove to all the “gigs” with two vehicles, most of the equipment, several younger siblings, and a few girlfriends. They called one of the girls “Yoko,” since her presence was a strain on the brotherhood of the band. But she was also fodder for some of their best songs, like “Rock Bottom.” The last line said, “Something’s gotta stop before you hit rock bottom.” And since they were very young, and it was the late 90s, the words “rock bottom” were screamed into a microphone. The sound was like an adolescent lion finding his roar. Through my earplugs, I could hear my baby boy trying to sound like the king of the jungle. I didn’t know whether to giggle, or be very afraid.

But this week, The Band Wagon sits in our driveway. After $3,000 in repairs in two months, the prognosis for future health was not good. Except for its teal green color, you would never guess that it was ten years old, or that it had almost 200,000 miles on it. The gray leather interior is still in great condition. I had religiously changed the oil, and whenever any mechanic worked on it, they remarked that it was in great shape, except, of course, for whatever they had just repaired. The only telltale signs of its vocation were the scrapes on the top of the tailgate bumper as many a drum set, amplifier, guitar, and yes, accordion were loaded into its cavernous interior.

As The Band Wagon is retired, I think of how many times young drivers and twenty-somethings used to deride its very existence, making fun of momivans, and calling them urban assault vehicles. If I drove the speed limit, kids in speedy little cars or pickup trucks often flipped me off while they sped around me. I used to chuckle to myself, knowing that it was The Band Wagon. No one laughed when I pulled up to the back door of a club with a popular band and their precious gear.
Selah 7 dissolved long ago. Thadd and Brandon are married. John still plays in a band with Nick, the drummer, but they have their own transportation now. My role as driver, food provider, and ersatz manager is a distant, fond memory.

All week I have been enjoying the fragrance of privilege in the world: new car smell. It’s coming from a 2007 silver Prius hybrid that sits in my garage. It’s a sign that my days of endless driving with a mini-van full of boys and gear and groceries are over. Let the new life begin.