When I was a child, after the laundromat my father owned turned first into a pool hall & next into an appliance repair business, my father drove a van. It was a retired Sears & Roebuck repair van of a certain blue-green color, almost/not quite, a pastel – way before Tiffany’s was on my radar. Call it turquoise or light teal or, when I attempted to present him with a Crayola van rendering, sea green layered over cadet blue, his van was my first experience with the serene, relaxing Tiffany hue. Turns out, that’s a big no-no in the commercial vehicle auction process. Sears required him to paint the van per terms of the sale. So, in Ted fashion, he turned to his BFF, local Seagoville wrecker operator Charlie Ballard, for a remedy. Charlie reckoned they could paint it themselves. Why, he even had a professional automotive paint sprayer at his garage. And, paint it, they did. I’ll never forget the time my mom went on a girl’s trip to Memphis with her mom & sister. While they were touring Graceland and snapping roughly 200 triple exposed pictures of the Peabody ducks – to this day when I see articles on those ducks, I envision duck world domination – my dad was left behind to care for me, his 10-year-old kiddo. That included taking and picking me up from school. Technically, there was a bus that ran right by my house, but I was a painfully shy kid. The year before, the bus driver couldn’t remember my name. She also couldn’t remember where I lived on the rural route road. Her solution was to pump the brakes, bring the bus to a screeching halt, and yell, “Ted, where’s your house?” I suffered from bus PTSD from that day forward. So, color me Crayola red violet when the all new, Ballard & Stilwell rendition of the Sears van pulled up to Central Elementary School one fateful afternoon. I mean, I heard Mrs. R. Jones (never to be confused with Mrs. S. Jones) going on and on about a red van, but I was too busy stressing out about the upcoming field day & how mortified I was when I learned they were forcing us to compete in at least one activity. I had reluctantly chosen the lemon twist marathon, since at least it did not require running. That’s when I realized there was a vaguely familiar noise that sounded equal parts like a sick goose, a model T Ford, and the cartoon character whose eyes popped out when a pretty lady walked by. “AhhhhhhOOOOOOOOga, AhhhhhhOOOOOOOga,” went the noise. Snapping out of my movie reel daze of my mangled ankle wrapped in a lemon twist while a gaggle of mean girls screamed “Ted, Ted” at the tops of their lungs, I looked across the parking lot. There, parked illegally in the bus lane, no less, was the brightest, glossiest, candy apple-est RED VAN I had ever seen. And, right down the middle, ran a stark, white horizontal stripe. A girl who shall remain nameless, no doubt someone who’d signed up for the 100 yd dash, sashayed by me with a disdainful look on her face. “Does your dad drive a Coca Cola van or something?” Oh, the shame.