On the eve of tomorrow's 5:00 a.m. departure to deliver my beloved Scout to its new owner in Cleveland— almost 10 years since I gave in to my dad's "feverish, sentimental, problematic fascination with old cars," as I called it in a magazine story—I drove my five-year-old daughter to school in it, for one last ride.
(Don't tell my wife.)
"We're gonna miss this stinky old truck aren't we?" I said, referring to the noxious mixture of gas, oil, grease, antifreeze and exhaust that I smell on my clothes even now, back at my writing desk.
"It's stinky. But it kind of smells yummy," she said, and then fell silent for 30 seconds before adding thoughtfully, "It kind of smells like candy, or honey."