The legend of our iconic Astro van
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- June 17, 2019
- 1289
I remember thinking, “If only we could get a van that fit all the kids,” knowing it was just out of reach. My Mazda 626 had been a bargain, and at that time we only had one child, but now there were more, and I just couldn’t fit everyone in the backseat of that stick-shift wonder.
But I am who I am, and not taking no for an answer, we put our heads together and found a way to make it work. I drove myself to a not-too-distant town, where I bought our first mini-van — the legendary Astro.
When I think of this van present day, I cringe. It was white with maroon stripes, mauve-ish carpeting inside on the floors, seats and halfway up the sides. It had faux-wood track lighting running around the entire interior, and if that van wasn’t luxury for first-time van owners, then nothing was.
It was affordable, and affordable was what we needed back in 1995. I signed the papers and drove that baby home, humming along to the cassette I popped in for the ride. When I strapped those car seats in, the babies riding high on power plush seats, I felt a moment of freedom for what we’d been able to swing.
Have you ever needed a new-to-you car so much that the freedom of finally having one brought you to tears?
Easing into the summer months, a hint of balm in the air with some still-cool evenings, I think of this van. It took us everywhere we wanted to go: the pool, rides on the curvy back roads of Holmes County, to Canton for a matinee and even to Mexico.
On longer trips we fashioned a bed in the back where they could lay to sleep, even hooking up a small TV/VCR combo that allowed them to watch movies as we traveled. It made us feel peaceful, content, even as it succumbed to the perils of small children eating it up in small bites over the years.
Because a vehicle is just a vehicle.
Soon the carpets became sticky, and mysterious dark spots appeared on the back of the seats. Some of the track lighting flickered out, and the faux wood started peeling while unknown odors emanated from underneath the chairs, only to find it was a discarded sippy cup filled with chocolate milk that had dribbled onto the carpet.
The engine light would turn on, and we had to take it to the garage more than we could afford. We drove it for five years until it nearly limped into a dealership where we were able to secure our next van. It had served us well.
I don’t like to think about this van much, with its garish interior. I’m embarrassed knowing I drove it to its last breath, ugly as I now think it was. But on their last visit home, as the kids were all looking through old pictures, my son mentioned something to his girlfriend about the super sweet van we used to have.
Suddenly pictures were being pulled out that it was shown in the background of. They reminisced about the sweet lights inside and how they’d felt like they were riding in the lap of luxury being inside of it.
They found a favorite picture in the van showing my younger two and their cousin, ice cream dried onto their faces, asleep on each other’s shoulders on the way home from the pool. I looked at them and knew they were telling the truth.
They’d loved that van.
In that moment I realized, once again, that the things we do for our kids — what we think is not the most awesome or best and just breaking even at what we can afford — to them is everything.
Vehicles are just vehicles, but inside them memories are made, stories are unfolded, tears are shed and a lifetime of moments are left behind to make way for the next owner. I’m now able to remember that van with fondness instead of how it fell apart at the end. Because when we needed it, it held our family together.