My parents used to drive an old red hippie bus that is the home of some of my fondest memories. It couldn’t make it up a hill without shaking, and I think it would have fallen apart if my dad hadn’t kept fixing it with string and bailing wire. It never looked clean, even with a couple coats of car polish. And when we were actually driving it I was constantly embarrassed by it. But now it’s ingrained in my memory, somehow symbolic of an idyllic childhood.