It was my mother’s old Plymouth Horizon
That was graceful as a elephant in slippers, brown as a cocoa bean and loud as Mack truck. Old Betsy was her name.
She always…well, most of the time got us to where we needed to be. Whether in bitter-cold hard winters or perfectly warm but uncooperative, mother would say ” come on Betsy, come on Betsy, come on Betsy” as she turned the ignition over and over fully hoping to hear that old engine fired up again. As if somehow she could start the car on sheer willpower.
Old Betsy was anything but timid, just as bold as my mother, we would hear them coming a mile away. Turning around, she would put it in reverse and back up our long driveway with the skill of a wicked stuntman.
But our fondest remembrance will always be mothers chant “come on Betsy, come on Betsy, come on Betsy”.
Written for poetic Bloomings personification poem