Egg

Today my car was "egged". You remember that from your childhood, right? On Hallow's Eve those "rotten kids" as my grandmother might say would run around throwing eggs on people's cars.

I got into some mischief as a kid, but I never egged anyone's car. Why not? Because one time driving home with my dad - I must have been 8 or so - one hit the side of my dad's pride and joy - a 70's era yellow, Porsche 914 convertible - with little rust spots eating holes in the side. What happened next has been emblazoned on my memory forever. He stopped the car on a dime, ran over to the bushes, unearthed one of the kids (I've never before or since seen my father move so fast) held onto his shirt and screamed at him until I was convinced the kid had wet himself. I stayed in the car, parked askew in the middle of the road, doing my very best impersonation of a petrified egg.

Don't get me wrong, my dad's a good man, just rather imposing and intimidating at 6' 2" and prone to a mighty temper. Fast forward 9 years and that same Porsche was one of the first cars I got to test-drive, with him watching me like a hawk from the passenger seat as the sun beat down on us as we pulled away from the softball fields where I was his biggest fan. I can remember his words like it was yesterday, "wanna take it for a spin?" I almost dropped the keys that he threw my way.

I thought about this memory today cleaning the egg off the hood of my car, a ten year old maroon Toyota Rav 4, reliable but not nearly so flashy and fun.

Worth noting, however, is that my second thought when I saw the egg on my car was that I wished I could eat it.