My definition of a "nice car" probably does not match yours

This is my current set of wheels

The standards I have for personal vehicles are low, having been shaped by the fact that I am Bob Tennant's son.

When I was growing up, my dad owned a succession of cars that could generously be described as "economical." All of them could get you from Point A to Point B, more or less, but there was no guarantee you would get there in one piece.

I remember one car with a passenger door that would randomly open when you made a right turn. More than once my dad had to reach over and grab my arm so I wouldn't tumble out into the intersection at 25 MPH.

There were floorboards so rusted through you could see the pavement passing by underneath your feet, and a van with a gas tank that once broke off and dragged along the ground for two miles as we drove home. I remember thinking the sparks it created as it scraped along the road were probably more than enough to ignite whatever gas was in there.

You shouldn't have to worry about your vehicle going up in flames when you're 8 years old.

I remember the old man owning one or maybe two decent cars total when I was growing up. The rest were already on their last legs the day he brought them home.

Thus it was no surprise that my own first car was a semi-dependable 1979 yellow Chevy Chevette, or that my subsequent upgrade was a seemingly rubber band-powered Dodge Omni. Back then, I figured nice cars were reserved exclusively for the super rich.

All of this is to explain why, to this day, my idea of a luxury car isn't an Audi, a BMW or a Mercedes-Benz. It's any car with working turn signals and a monochrome center-console display screen.

You will understand, then, why the car I currently drive, a 2021 Honda Civic hatchback, is easily the sportiest and nicest vehicle I have ever owned.

I love that car, and I love driving it. I've never had a car about which I could say that. It has what I consider to be all the best "modern" features, many of which have probably been standard on new vehicles for a decade but few of which I've ever personally had.

Speaking of new cars, I should mention that I've never owned one. And my wife has owned exactly one: her beloved 1988 Beretta, which was eventually passed down to me before I drove it into the ground. We not only are not "nice car" people, we're not even "new car" people.

Terry drove a series of minivans in the 90s and 2000s largely because she often had four or five passengers (i.e., our kids) in tow. Now she drives a 2015 Honda CRV, which while enjoyable isn't on the level of my Civic.

That's why I'm looking forward to her getting her own "bells-and-whistles" car sometime in the next year or so. And by bells and whistles, I'm talking about things that excite us but probably not you: heated seats and/or steering wheel, touchscreen console display, sideview cameras, etc.

If I could afford to buy her a Rolls, I would. But her standards are about as low as mine, and having a dependable, top-of-the-line Honda or Toyota is pretty much the pinnacle for both of us.

On the plus side, we are exceedingly easy to please.

Is it strange that I don't care in the least about what car I drive?

I spend a lot of time on LinkedIn these days because I'm always interested in what's going on in my industry, what former co-workers are up to, and what's generally trending in the business world. One of my favorite things is when LinkedIn users conduct polls on particular questions or issues.

I almost always participate in these polls, not so much because I want to share my own opinion as I want to see what others think.

Recently, though, I came across a LinkedIn poll I had to skip over. The person asked, "If money was no object, what car would you buy?" The choices were Cadillac, Porsche, or Other.

I was looking for the fourth option, which would have been "I don't even begin to care."

It is common for people to talk about their "dream car." Do you know what my dream car is? One that will reliably get me where I want to go. The make and model, the color, the styling, the bells and whistles, etc. are of virtually no consequence to me.

I just don't care.

This becomes readily apparent when you look at the cars I've driven over the last 3 1/2 decades. They have ranged from a Chevy Chevette and a Dodge Omni early on to a couple of minivans and, in recent years, Honda sedans.

My last two cars have been a black Honda Accord and a black Honda Civic.

And I couldn't have been happier with them, though I honestly don't give them that much thought because...well, there are a lot of things that are way more important to me, I guess.

As a Father's Day present, Terry arranged to have my Civic detailed by Nathan's Automotive Detailing. We've used them before and they do an outstanding job.

My car was so clean inside and out that it made the huge dent in the right rear quarter panel and the various scratches on the exterior really stand out (Virtually all of these blemishes, by the way, have been caused by some combination of my kids, but we won't get into that.)

I feel like I should care about dents and scratches, but I just can't work up the energy to make any of it matter.

Now, the fact that it's mid-July and there won't be any hockey for another few months? That matters to me, and it's depressing.

We each have our priorities.

Happiest of birthdays to the girl in the flowered shorts

 

I have posted this photo on Facebook a time or two before because it always makes me smile.

Actually, it kind of makes me laugh. It's so very 80s, from our shorts to our hair to my yellow Chevette. It is, in some ways, that decade summarized in one image.

The best part about it is the pretty girl smiling for the camera. Her name is Terry, and she is my wife.

Of course, when this picture was taken, we didn't know that's where things were headed. We just knew we really liked each other and we had a good time together, so...that was enough.

I believe this was taken in the summer of 1986, maybe four months or so after we had begun dating. That was the year we both turned 17.

Now we're a few years older. A lot older than 17, anyway.

And today is another birthday for the incomparable Ms. Terry Tennant. On the list of the best things that have ever happened to me, she is definitely in the top 1.

It is very, very difficult to imagine a life even half as good as the one I have now without her in it.

She deserves a lot more than she'll actually get today, though trust me, the kids and I will make sure she knows how appreciated she is.

There is not another human being like her. God made just the one and decided there was no need to tinker with the formula. Everything He made is good, I know, but I feel like she's extra good. "Good plus," if you will.

Happy birthday, then, to the funniest, kindest, smartest, most beautiful person I know. She puts her heart into everything, and brightens the day of everyone she meets.

There's a real knack to that, you know. And the only person I've ever seen really pull it off is the girl in the flowered 80s shorts.

The 40-Year-Old Nephew

Today my nephew Mark turns 40 years old. When something like this happens, you are forced to deal with the fact that you yourself are not quite as young as you like to think you are.

I remember when Mark was born, sort of. I was 5 years old, hadn't started kindergarten yet, and spent most of my days in the kind of brain-damaged haze that is the domain of accident victims and 5-year-old boys.

I had some vague idea that another human being was about to become part of our lives, and that my brother Mark was apparently going to be this person's dad, but that's about it. Mark Sr. was only 17 years old at the time and still pretty much seemed like a kid to me (as I'm sure he did to himself).

So then Mark Jr. was born and it didn't take long for him to seem more like a little brother to me than a nephew. When you're 5 years old, you shouldn't have anyone calling you "Uncle _______."

Mark spent a lot of time at our house growing up, which was generally OK but got a lot better when he became a teenager and was more fun to be around. In those few years when I was working at the newspaper and still living at home while in college, I would sometimes come home from my job around midnight, and Mark and I would go out for a late-night meal at Denny's.

Occasionally I would let him drive my high-powered, chick-attracting 1979 Chevy Chevette, which was technically a violation of the law given that he wasn't yet of legal driving age, but turned out OK in the sense that he didn't actually kill anyone. This was 2 o'clock in the morning, remember, so the streets were pretty empty (I wasn't so stupid as to let him drive in rush hour or anything.)

Then I got married and started having kids and I saw less and less of my little brother/nephew. We still see each other on holidays and we still laugh about the same stupid things, which makes 1990 not seem like such a long time ago.

And now "little" Mark is married with a daughter of his own, and like I said, he's 40 years old today. All of which blows my mind and makes me wonder how my mom feels as her "baby" (me) creeps closer and closer to 50.

That's the whole Lion King circle-of-life thing, I guess. We get older. It happens. We grow up. It happens. We stop driving Chevy Chevettes. Thankfully, it happens.

So at the risk of making this occasion about me (yeah, I know, too late), let me just say happy birthday to Mark, my nephew, substitute little bro, fellow Sting fan, and long-time Denny's connoisseur. Here's hoping you get at least 40 more.

And here's hoping you're still around when your little daughter turns 40 so that you can feel as old as I do right now.

Did I ever tell you about the time my wife dumped me? Twice?

I have been in love with the same woman for 27 years.

I often say this is one of my greatest accomplishments, but I don't know that you could actually classify it as an accomplishment.

"Accomplishment," to me, signifies conscious effort. And I didn't make a conscious effort to fall in love with Terry. It just sort of happened when I was 16 years old. And it has lasted ever since. So I'm not sure you can say that being in love with someone is an "accomplishment."

Now, staying together with them? Nurturing that relationship? Strengthening your bond? Those take effort. Those are accomplishments. But actually being in love? I don't think I had much to do with that. That was God's work, and He did a very nice job of it, if I may say so.

Terry and I met when I was a sophomore in high school. She was stunningly pretty. I was passable in the looks department. To the point that you could take me out in public and not be overly embarrassed to be seen with me.

After less than a year of dating, I knew I loved her.

And looking back, I was right about that.

You don't often know what love really is when you're 16 or 17 years old, but for whatever reason, I did. What I felt for her then was as genuine as what I feel for her now.

But it almost fell apart. Twice, actually.

Terry dumped me two times during high school. Once was between my junior and senior year in the summer of 1987. I don't remember much about that particular break-up, other than that it mercifully didn't last very long.

But the second time was the following summer after I had graduated. I think it only lasted three weeks or so, but I'm not kidding you when I say they were the worst three weeks of my life.

I was such a lost soul. I honestly couldn't fathom how I was supposed to go on without her. So I just kind of existed. I hadn't yet started college, nor did I have a job at the time. So I existed. Miserably.

My mom remembers. She remembers me staying up late at night listening to sad music and just laying in my bed. Occasionally I would call Terry. And most of the time she would tell me I had to stop calling her.

At one point she told me I needed to find someone else to be with, that it would be good for me. So I gave it a try. I went out a few times with a very pretty and smart girl.

But Terry (this is my favorite part of the story) didn't like that. I had started my job at The News-Herald during our break-up period, and one night I came out of work to find a rose and a nice card from her tucked under the windshield wipers of my 1979 Chevy Chevette.

I drove straight to Terry's house.

We got back together for good that night.

A few months later, when we were both 19, we got engaged. Less than four years after that, we were married. To the extent that I had anything to do with making this beautiful relationship last, I guess that is one of my greatest accomplishments.

But I realized the other night that there's also a potential dark side to all of this. Well, not a "dark" side, really, but there is a risk.

I have put everything into being with this woman. Everything I am is wrapped up in her. If something were to happen to her, I would be a lost soul again.

And knowing that is scary. I don't want to go back to that horrible feeling again. But the fact is, I just might have to. One day, anyway.

The reality of our collective situation as humans is that we have an expiration date. Whatever we build in this life simply ain't going to last forever, and that includes romantic bonds cemented by red roses left on Chevy Chevettes.

An extremely selfish part of me hopes that I'm the one to die first, if only so I don't have to go through that dark time again. And I have biology on my side, what with woman living longer on average than men.

But there's nothing to be gained by having these morbid thoughts, so I try to shut them out.

Sometimes at night just before I fall asleep, I turn my head toward her side of the bed and try to make out her face in the darkness. Often I can. Sometimes I can't.

No matter, though. I can always see her in my mind.

Sometimes when I picture her it's the current mom-of-five Terry. Other times it's when-we-just-got-married Terry. And occasionally it's 16-year-old Terry.

Every one of them is beautiful. And every one of them is mine.

Then, and only then, do I drift off to sleep, content in the knowledge that whatever else may eventually happen, the girl I loved in 1986 is still laying next to me.

Twenty-seven years of that is worth just about any price, to tell you the truth.

1986: Mr. Cool takes his girl out on the town

Twenty-six years ago tonight, my wife and I went on our first date.

I know this because I am the designated person in our relationship whose job it is to remember dates, anniversaries and the like. My short-term memory is slipping year by year, but March 1st, 1986, will be forever seared into my brain.

For a long time, I thought Feb. 27th was our dating "anniversary." But then a couple of years ago I looked at a calendar from 1986 and was surprised to see that the 27th was actually a Thursday...which made sense when I thought about it. I asked Terry out on a Thursday afternoon, and it was on Saturday that we actually had the date.

The "ask" was the hardest part of the whole thing. Terry was a junior, while I was but a lowly sophomore. She was -- and forever will be -- eight months older than me, but we were both in band, which for whatever reason is a place where age differences tend to matter less than they do elsewhere in the high school ethos.

Being a football player, I was only in concert and jazz bands, not marching band, where a lot of band relationships were born. But as fate would have it, Terry and I both spent our second-period study hall that year hanging out in the band room. And somehow (who knows how these things work?) we started noticing each other.

We talked a lot during those study halls, and she seemed to laugh at my jokes (she doesn't really bother doing that anymore...we both know the only one who thinks I'm the least bit funny is me, so why pretend?) Any idiot watching from the sidelines could see we were rapidly falling in "like."

But I wasn't just any idiot. I was an idiot actually involved in this thing, and I was scared to death to ask her out. Oh my goodness, she was so pretty. I mean like make-my-heart-race-and-my-stomach-flip-flop pretty. She still is. That's one of the reasons I love coming home so much.

It took a wise and mature 18-year-old senior, Connie Meier, to play matchmaker for us. I think Connie got tired of us skirting the issue and just decided enough was enough and that SOMEONE had to prod this moron into asking Terry out. So when I asked Connie if I had a shot, she said something to the effect of, "Uh, yeah, dude. Don't be so dense. Ask her."

That was about as much encouragement as I was going to get, so the only thing to do was to pop the question. Now if you've ever been in high school and have gone through this, you know you don't just ask someone to go out. You have to set it up. You have to figure out all the angles. You have to determine the right time and place. And most of all, you have to be Mr. Cool.

In retrospect, I find all of this hilarious. I already had it on pretty good authority that Terry was with the program here. No fancy prep necessary, really. But as per usual for me, I was far, far too stupid to see this. So I took a couple more days to figure out how and when I should execute my plan.

It helped that our lockers were right near each other. It was the last period of the day on Thursday. I was in Mr. Robertson's history class (poor Mr. Robertson...such a nice man and a great teacher. He would pass away the following year from, I believe, cancer). I knew I would see Terry when I went back to my locker, so I decided this would be it. This was where I would make my stand, for good or bad.

As I walked back to my locker after the final bell rang, I had that dry throat, sweaty palms thing going. Why was I nervous? Connie told me this would work. What I jerk I am, I thought. This can't be that hard.

I get to my locker. Terry is standing at hers. Oh my gosh, she's so pretty. No way I can do this right now. Seriously, no way. But oh man, she's just beautiful. Look at her! And she's not dating anyone! And she likes you, you big dummy! Just do it! JUST DO IT!

ME: "Hey, Ter." (This is what I've called her for the last quarter of a century: "Ter," rhymes with "air." I'm pretty sure that's what I called her at that moment. At least that's how I remember it. I'll have to ask her if she remembers it the same. In any case, I tried to do it in my casual Mr. Cool voice, though I'm sure I was squeaking like the frightened 16-year-old I was.)

HER: "Yeah?"

ME: "You wanna go out tomorrow night?"

HER: "Oh! Uh, no, I can't."

OH NO OH NO OH NO OH NO!! SHE'S GOING TO SAY NO! FULL EMBARRASSED PANIC MODE! RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!

HER AGAIN (quickly, probably seeing my look of alarm): "Only because I have a youth group meeting at church! I can do it Saturday night!"

ME (intense relief, trying without success to slip back into Mr. Cool mode): "Oh! OK, cool. We can see a movie or something."

HER: "OK, we can do that."

And then I don't remember a thing for two days. I remember being on Cloud Nine. I remember being happy, relieved, and nervous for the actual date. But the details of the next two days are forever lost. On Saturday, I picked her up in my styling yellow 1979 Chevrolet Chevette. Nothing, I mean nothing, says "Chick Magnet" like a yellow 'Vette!

It was a snowy might. I took her out to the Mentor Mall, where we saw "Down and Out in Beverly Hills" with Nick Nolte and Bette Midler. Then we drove to Willoughby and I treated her to a gourmet dinner at the only place the wages I earned working at Wendy's could afford: McDonald's (I do see the irony there.) Then I took her home.

As I drove down her street, I couldn't remember which house was hers. They were all made of brick, and at the time they all looked alike to me. I was cruising along at full speed when she suddenly said, "Stop, that's my house!"

So I hit the brake and immediately began skidding across the snow-covered pavement. The car turned 90 degrees to the right and came to a stop right in front of her house -- actually facing her house, as it turned out.

Terry's house had a good-sized front window. And standing there as my car swerved crazily and ended up facing the house, as God is my witness, was Terry's father. I could have died.

I sheepishly backed up and pulled into her driveway. I walked her to the side door. I told her I had a good time. She said the same. Mr. Cool leaned in for a goodnight kiss. And I kid you not, just as our lips were about to meet, I burped. I NEVER burp. Seriously, I'm almost incapable of doing it. I burp maybe 5 or 10 times a year. And the God of the universe, who has never lacked a sense of humor, found that exact moment to be the time when I should take a step toward meeting my sparse Annual Burp Quota.

I was mortified, of course. I think we both laughed. But then we kissed anyway. And it was wonderful. I'm telling you, it was something. I will never forget it. I wish I could tell you at that moment I was thinking, "OK, this is the person I'm going to marry," but I don't think I was nearly sharp enough to know that. I just knew that this beautiful girl had just gone out with me. Had had a good time with me. And had kissed me. Whatever is 50 feet higher than Cloud Nine was where I spent the rest of the night. I went home a happy man in the yellow Chevette.

As it turned out, we would be engaged less than three years after that and married in a little more than six years. Kids would come one after the other for a 12-year period starting in the mid-90s. And it has all been amazing. Seriously, I can't imagine I would ever change a thing.

Except the burping part. If I could go back, I would do everything humanly possible to hold in that burp. But other than that? Paradise.