Uncool On The Road: In My "Dad Car"
Paul Lazarovich (lazarovich@wit.edu)
Associate Professor, Humanities, Social Sciences and Management


Cranberry Country Moment — a glimpse of the thoughts, the neighbors, events and activities that make Cranberry Country the region’s most unique place to call home.

Its shape, its size; the choices of colors. Even its accessories. From the built-in child seat to extra holders for sippee cups and the separate compartments for toys. It shouted out its message — loud and clear for all those to hear. Zipping along aside of me on Routes 495, 24 and beyond. I was driving an official "Dad Car."

It’s a kind of vehicle that, as a 15-year-old, you vowed to your best friend Mitchell ñ if you were caught driving such a car when you became old (over 30) ñ he had explicit orders to hold your head underwater. Until you came to your senses.

But now, as an "official dad," I was driving the exact kind of vehicle that every Bay State teenager ñ on a stack of bibles and under penalty of being labeled uncool — swore never to be caught dead in. And not only was I driving one, but — gasp — I actually owned this "Dad Car."

How things had changed since I was wiser and, obviously, much cooler in my younger years.

Back then, even if it were the only intact vehicle remaining in the world ñ as a result of an A-bomb invasion by the Nikita Krushchev-led Russian forces. And I had to be rushed to the hospital because the four chocolate Yoohoos I had gulped — in order to wash down the three packages of Hostess Snowballs I devoured (in what I determined to be my last supper here on earth) contained nuclear fallout. And although I heard the Conolrad emergency broadcast system on my transistor radio indicate this was NOT a test — and I had to get to the hospital, immediately. No way was it going to be in my Dad’s car. That car? Yeah, right.

But that was a long time ago. Or at least it seems so. Because most days, as I head off to work, I am seen by all. In a vehicle that screams — "I’m a Dad" — to everyone within earshot of my all-news-radio-station-blaring Dodge Caravan.

Any thoughts of capturing the eyes of that carload of giggling girls I pulled aside of at the lights — like we might have years ago? Nope. Especially when you recall how Caravans emit a low level frequency — audible only to teenagers.

To that sporty convertible filled with girls, the signal blasted, "Warning. Warning. Do not come near. I have a complete collection of Barney the Dinosaur tapes at home."

It was the equivalent of the mechanical robot warning young Wil Robinson to stand clear. "Danger! Uncool. Do not come near!"

And certainly — when I didn’t get the thumbs up from the three baseball-capped buddies maneuvering their all-terrain vehicle (didn’t they use to call them Jeeps?) — it was that they too were adhering to the oath to which you once pledged allegiance. "To honor, obey and avoid such a car. Until 30."

Driving a "Dad Car" certainly brought back visions of old Mr. What’s-His-Name’s vehicle. You know every neighborhood had one. The big station wagon. With the imitation wood grain on the side. Usually in bright red or eye-squinting white? Complete with plastic seat covers that became part of your anatomy during a steamy summer’s drive to Nantasket Beach.

Do you recall how you and your buddies delighted in teasing your friend about his old man’s car? Tormenting him about the orange ball on that beach wagon’s radio antenna. Strategically placed so your friend’s mom could easily spot it in the A & P parking lot?

And didn’t you and your compardres fight to open the windows — even in the dead of winter — in an attempt to gain consciousness. After a twenty-five minute ride in his dad’s car. You know, the one containing three pine tree shaped and scented air fresheners ñ as close to the smell of fresh pines as was the horrible stuff they sprayed in school after someone had (being PC) "gotten sick" during 6th period gym?

Somehow, that inherent desire for maintaining one’s coolness had become replaced with a need for practicality. How and when it happened? I can’t quite put my finger on it. But it did, all right.

And having a vehicle ñ cool enough to carry your best friends, beach gear, coolers, sporting equipment, cassettes and a steady girlfriend asking you to "slow down, will ya?" — had magically transformed into a van. One that would handily store strollers, juice boxes, Goldfish crackers and CD’s of Disney soundtracks — along with my wife and two lovely daughters constantly inquiring, "are we there, yet, Dad?"

This morning, while I adjusted my car’s rear view mirror — my weary eyes caught the remains of an "I Am The Proud Parent Of An ABC School Honor Student" bumper sticker on the window. And with the bottom of my shoes stuck to a Juicy Juice soaked floor mat; my body sunk into the Caravan’s lumbar support seat — it really didn’t seem to matter.

I turned the ignition and happily headed off to work. Mouth wide open, singing along to Disney’s Lion King soundtrack. "The Circle of Life" blaring loudly for all to hear.

Uncool, on the Road, in my "Dad Car

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