By Rebecca F. Rikleen
We were not the first owners nor the last owners of Blue Boy. But he was ours. I had been wary of buying a Ford in the first place; Ford the man was such a bigot, so hateful.
But price was right; the car was carefully used, and convenient and within our means. Plus it was a hatchback, great for lugging groceries and treasures from yard sales; the mileage was good. I would overlook the dreaded personality of the namesake, long dead.
Ford was born in 1863. Blue boy was born 91 years after Ford. Blue Boy served us well; we bequeathed him to my daughter Annie when he was 12 years old. Now a year later, granddaughter Emily drove him to show us her apartment in Brooklyn.
At 125th St and First Avenue she slammed into a black sedan. I wasn’t looking; I saw nothing till suddenly an enameled black wall loomed and then, with a jolt, our windshield smashed in myriad fracture lines; paper bags collected around my legs and greasy black smoke spiraled up from the motor. Continue reading