Doodle
We call him Doodle.
Maybe our metallic blue minivan has a name because my triplet siblings and I were seven when he joined our family, but how can you not name a vehicle that has well over two-hundred thousand miles and has taken you just about everywhere?
Doodle is as much of a place as any of the countries and houses I’ve lived in. For ten years he has been a familiar old friend no matter where we were stationed, and I have probably fallen asleep more times in our van than in any of my seven bedrooms. From visiting our grandmother in northeast Ohio to spending eight hours driving through the Austrian Alps on the way to Venice and being dropped off for our first day of sixth grade across post, we have relied on Doodle for our every destination.
Moving every two to three years has made it hard to feel attached to any one place or house, but our trusty van has been with us for over half of our moves. Through the stress of military life and leaving people and places we loved, we could always count on Doodle to be in our driveway to welcome us after those rough first few weeks in a new place.
Now I’m old enough to drive, but I can never take Doodle anywhere without being reminded of when we were small enough to squeeze into our car seats on those long journeys down the Pennsylvania Turnpike or those times we stuck our heads out of the window to feel the rush of passing cars on the Autobahn. Tiny grains of sand eternally lodged in Doodle’s every cup holder evokes days of sitting out on hot Mediterranean beaches. A large discolored stain in the front passenger seat still smells of the coffee Mom spilled a few years ago in our rush to school one morning. There are probably still molecules of snow and ice from that winter we pushed through Northern Michigan to visit our grandparents, and I don’t know if we’ll ever find those last pieces of confetti from spending Bastille Day in Paris.
Our faithful minivan has been there from our first days of second grade to move-in day at Ohio State. He’s getting older, but Mom is convinced she can put another two hundred thousand miles on him. If any van can do it, it’s Doodle.
Because Doodle isn’t just any van. He is a place, a place where there are meaningful family conversations and awful jokes. A place where we complained that we were cold, tired, and hungry and fought over who got to use the comfy pillow. A place with probably enough Cheeto crumbs hidden under the seats to fill a whole bag. A place where we have belted out our first and our two hundred seventeenth renditions of “99 Bottles of Pop on the Wall” and played countless games of “I Spy.”
A place where I’ve grown up.