| PUBLISHER’S MESSAGE Recently, our daughter, Geneva, turned sixteen, and the State of California deemed her worthy of receiving a driver’s license. Leading up to that fateful day, there was much deliberation and speculation about what we would do for her first set of wheels. Initially, we came up with the concept of a matching-funds program where we would match her dollar-fordollar on the purchase of a used car. In other words, if she were to save $1,500, we would then kick in another $1,500 for a $3,000 car. The only problem with that plan is between her jampacked schedule—school and dance—there is very little time left over for babysitting gigs. So, I came up with an alternative. As we settled in for dinner one night, I announced my solution: “Geneva, since you’ve only got $196 in savings, we really don’t want you driving a $392 car. Instead, I’ve got a proposal.” She lowered her fork and leaned in, listening intently, as her social life hanged in the balance. Point by point, I broke it down. She was to keep her savings, and Mom and Dad would be buying the car. But, and this was a very big “but,” we would have the ability to choose whatever vehicle we felt was best. And, as I reasoned that night, “Since you are a perfect combination of Mommy and me, we thought it only made sense that your first car also be a perfect combination of our first cars.” I continued, “Geneva, I’ve given this a lot of thought, and what we are going to do is find you a hybrid—and I don’t mean a Prius.” The rosiness drained from my daughter’s face as I reminded her that my first car was a 1964 El Camino, which my grandpa used to drive around the ranch inspecting his cotton for boll weevil infestations. As for my wife, she drove a 1988 Yugo, which she inherited second-hand from her big brother. So, what do you get when an El Camino and a Yugo fall in love and have kids? None other than an El Yugomino. She sunk deep into her chair, calculating how far away she could park from campus and still make it to her first-period class, while my wife and I wandered down memory lane. I talked about the hours I spent restoring the El Camino, which had been sitting on blocks in our driveway for years. Everything from overhauling the engine to re-upholstering the interior to an entirely new paint job. Nearly all the money I made working as the fullserve gas jockey down at the Union 76 station went into that car. If I instead invested it in an S&P 500 Index Fund, after thirty years, I would be, well, that’s depressing—I don’t want to talk about it. Next, my wife, Sheryl, talked about her car, a Yugo, which she noted, was the souped-up sport model, meaning it came with racing stripes. The aftermarket stereo system her brother had installed far exceeded the value of the car itself. Eventually, third gear wore down and did not work. As she was shifting, she would have to get going fast enough in second gear to skip third and go straight to fourth. The gas gauge didn’t work either, so refueling was a game of chance. Ironically, given its diminutive stature, parking was quite problematic, not just because reverse only worked properly with “driver’s assist,” which meant opening the door and pushing down Fred Flintstone-like to start the car backward, but also because of the varsity football team. They thought it was hilarious when the offensive line would pick up the class president’s tiny Yugoslavian car, walk it across the lot, and set it in the planter bed framing the main entrance. By now, Geneva had both elbows on the table, hands cradling her forehead, looking down in obvious distress. “Don’t worry, kid,” I said, “our cars never let us down—except that time Mommy’s driveshaft snapped in half—and that’s the whole point here, to go safely from Point A to Point B. Your El Yugomino will do just that, we promise.” My wife then concluded her story, telling our daughter that she kept her car running with duct tape and divine intervention and Hubba Bubba until she went off to college, where she traded it to her landlord for two months of rent. It turns out that Craigslist did not have any El Yugominos for sale, so we had to settle on the next best thing: a 2008 Volkswagen Beatle. But, there was a catch. It had a manual transmission. Hour upon hour was spent on seldom-traveled dirt roads teaching her the art of “driving stick.” Whenever she became frustrated by her lack of progress and grumbled something along the lines of, “Why didn’t you just get an automatic? It would have been so much easier.” We would respond, “That’s exactly the point—we don’t care about it being easy, we want you to learn—and, at least, you’ve got third gear.” I would like to take this opportunity to say “thank you” to everyone who has had a hand in producing this issue of <strong>SLO</strong> <strong>LIFE</strong> <strong>Magazine</strong> and, most of all, to our advertisers and subscribers—we couldn’t do it without you. Live the <strong>SLO</strong> Life! El Yugomino Tom Franciskovich tom@slolifemagazine.com Get the story within the story by going to GrowWithTom.com and subscribing to Tom’s Bombs to receive the next installment. 14 | <strong>SLO</strong> <strong>LIFE</strong> MAGAZINE | OCT/NOV <strong>2019</strong>
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