Quiet

Tim has set his Camaro in the front yard with a 'For Sale' sign. He says that he won't be sorry to see it sell, but I wonder. His first car was a Camaro, and he's almost always had one. When we married he had a Super Sport and a Z28. He sold the Super Sport, but I thought that he'd always have the Z. He had big plans for that car.

I watched him with it tonight, the hood up in the yard, listening to the engine, tinkering, stopping to rev the engine, and I cannot help but feel sad. I drove that car once. I stepped on the gas and the thing threw gravel everywhere as Tim laughed and said, "Listen to those horses bark..." I got out of the car and I said, "I will never drive that car again. Mama better stick to the Taurus." And I never did drive it again. Neither did Tim, not much. He's a family man, a worker. He didn't seem to mind, but I saw that dreamy look he'd get when he heard the rumble of a muscle car, and I'd think, "Some day, when things are easier, he'll be anxious to have a car like that again." Yet now the Camaro sits for sale in the front yard. I realize that he is putting everything on the line to get his wife through college. I'm humbled by that more than words can say. I cannot fail.

With such a husband, I cannot fail.