Betsy was born in Michigan in 1997. Some call her by her proper name "Chevrolet Blazer," but to me, she's Betsy. Our relationship is solid. I encourage her to be the best she can be. "Come on, Come on Betsy, you can do it," can be heard from me as we plow through snow. When a speeding projectile hit and chipped the window Betsy was assured an appointment to the "Window Doctor" was coming post haste. She is always my fellow companion as I tour Terra Firma. I am never alone. "Betsy, did you see that jerk who almost cut us off?" "Where did he learn to drive, Wal-Mart?" "If brains were dynamite he couldn't blow his nose!" See, I am never alone.Betsy spends a large portion of the time in the garage, which is also nameless. Being out of the elements and separated from public nuisances makes Betsy happy. From time to time I will look in the garage window at her and gesture, acknowledging her presence.
I used to smoke cigarettes until I got Betsy. Haven't smoked since. The reason is simple, Betsy abhors cigarette smoke.
Betsy is actually Betsy VII. All my cars have been named Betsy. Cars don't have souls, but they do have a spirit, and this spirit goes on and on, from my first car to the present.
We talk much of freedom and what the word means and is worth. But, because of Betsy and all other automobiles we can travel anywhere at ease and in comfort. Ultimate freedom. It would be hard to deny the automobile a place on the list of greatest inventions ever. If you would ask Betsy or me, we should say it's a no-brainer.
