Everyone has a first car. I did not. I had a van. Actually,
it was my parents’ van. It was not a cool van. It was a 1992 maroon Dodge
Plymouth mini-van. The interior was festooned with weird stains and there were
numerous cigarette burns resulting from its brief stint as my brother-in-law’s
vehicle at Miami University. The radio didn’t work, the heat was faulty, and it
stalled out in the middle of intersections, possibly due to driver error. But
she was mine and she held seven passengers. Her name was Pam. Pam the Van. When
I was gifted Pam, my dad stood over me, sternly dangling the keys over my open
hand. “This vehicle is for travel to school and school related activities. It
is not, I repeat, it is not a party van and you are not to use it to haul your
friends around. Now, repeat after me. I, Ellen Leah Kohart, do solemnly swear
that I will not allow more than one passenger in this van at any time.”
I repeated the oath verbatim and grabbed the keys. Then I
drove off and was immediately pulled over for rolling a stop. The keys and I
enjoyed a week’s vacation from each other. And the oath was subsequently
amended to “I, Ellen, will come to a complete stop at all intersections signs .
. . Blah blah blah.”
To truly make Pam mine, I added SpongeBob decals to the back
windows and adorned the rearview mirror with a set of dangling stuffed frog
heads. The frog heads were my favorite, but now they would just remind me of
green testicles.
Giving a 16-year-old the keys to a family vehicle is asking
for trouble. I was a literal bus service for my friends. YES, I REMEMBER THE
OATH. Despite my solemn vow, I packed my friends into every available crevice,
nonetheless. I was the getaway driver for countless acts of debauchery.
My dad recalls the day my transportation provider status was
blown.
“Before giving Ellen the keys to the van, I gave her the
standard lecture on responsibility and also told her that I did not want the
van used as a taxi or to provide bus service for all her friends. She assured me
that it would never happen. Not 24-hours later, after picking Ellen’s younger
sister from basketball practice in Paulding, we stopped at a red light located
at the courthouse square. As we sat there waiting for the light to change, the
van, jammed full of teenage girls, went sailing through the intersection.
Although Ellen was at the wheel, her head was turned completely around, yakking
at one of her backseat passengers. Her best friend Shannon spotted us sitting
there and waved wildly through the window.
When she got home I met her before she could get out of the
van where we had a rather animated discussion regarding the evening’s
activities.”
Shannon converted Pam’s trunk into her own little mobile
closet. I remember my mom coming in the house, with a pair of undies hanging
off a stick. “Ellen, whose underwear are these?”
“They’re Shannon’s.”
“Why are Shannon’s underwear bunched up in the back of the
van?”
“Because she keeps extra outfits in there for emergencies.” DUH, Mom.
I asked my friends what they remembered of the van, and here
are their responses:
Amber: “I remember when we accidently went air-borne after
you went over railroad tracks too fast. And I also remember you guys locking me
in the built-in car seats because I was the only one who could fit in them.”
Shannon: “I remember that the middle of the steering wheel
looked like a cat’s butt hole.”
As many times as we toilet papered the homes of classmates
and teachers whom we felt had earned a comeuppance, the memory of one particular
night comes to mind.
I grew up on a farm in the country. Deep in some woods near
our house stood ol’ Kingery Cemetery. The cemetery was the oldest in the area
and to get there we had to follow a treacherous old wagon path that wound up
and down a hill. My dad usually took us there on bike rides, or he parked his
truck on the road, and we hiked through the woods. Once, when my cousin,
Zachary, and I were paired up for a leaf project in 7th grade, we
decided that the best trees could be found in Kingery Cemetery. In my memory of
the event, it was dark and ominous weather as we rode our bikes along the path
into the woods. We reached the cemetery, beautifully overlooking the Auglaize
River. As I started grabbing interesting leaves, Zachary called me over to the edge
of the woods. A small burn pit was smoldering and a cast iron pot sat next to
it. Then we heard a rustle in the trees. Friends, that is when I broke the land
speed record. Dropping the handful of leaves, I sprinted to my bike much like
the Roadrunner in the Wile E. Coyote cartoons.
As the years passed, as I recited the story to my friends,
the events of that day swirled and twisted into a creepy tale in which I
believe I added a ghostly girl in white who slowly appeared at the tree line as
we stared at the smoldering burn pile. I don’t actually remember the true
story. I spent too much time turning it into a worthwhile ghostly tale, now it’s
hard to separate fact from fiction. I’m even starting to creep myself out now.
Congrats.
As I told my friends yet again the Leaf Project Tale, it was
suggested by one of them that we go investigate. At night. In the van. I
agreed, although every alarm bell was jangling in my brain. As I have stated in
the past, I prefer spooky and creepy at a safe distance. Preferably in a
separate state. But, I had to keep face, and I was the only one with a van who
could fit everyone. So a gaggle of girls, clad in black, stuffed themselves into
that maroon van and set out on the half mile drive to the cemetery. It had
begun to rain, and in all my nervousness, I’d forgotten that I had never been to
the cemetery in anything bigger than a bicycle. Rain spattered the windshield
as we passed the sign that read “Kingery Cemetery –Do Not Enter When Wet.” None
of us saw it. We were all too busy laughing nervously or telling Natalie to
shut up when she started making ghost noises.
The winding path was much narrower and steeper than I
remembered, as I drove through the woods and to the top of the hill. I hit the
gas as I swung Pam over the last bump. Rain was falling harder and harder and
the cemetery loomed ominously as the van swung around the last turn, the
headlights raking the black trees and pale gravestones. I put the van in park,
and we all tied our hoodies around our faces to protect ourselves from the
rain. As Natalie swung her door open, I remained buckled and seated firmly.
“So, what’s our actual goal here? What do you guys want to accomplish with
this?”
“Oh my GOD, Ellen. Get out of the van. Don’t be a baby.”
Natalie said as she hopped out, straight into a muddy puddle.
“I don’t see Amber making any move for the door!” I
retorted.
Amber finally unbuckled. “I was just making sure you were
going. I’m going. I never said I wasn’t going!” With that, she followed Natalie
into the dark.
Shannon and I sat quietly in the darkened van. “We have to
go now. Come on.”
I hovered close to the van as everyone made their way around
the cemetery, flashlights bobbing. “Ellen! This grave says Ellen K.! THAT’S
YOU!” Natalie bellowed.
“I can see it from here, thanks! And I’m pretty sure that
says Eileen.”
“Nope! It says Ellen!” Amber called after her. God damn it,
Amber.
I trudged over to see for myself when Shannon yelped. She
had found the remnants of the camp at the tree line. “She wasn’t lying!!!
There’s a pan here! And an old coat!”
As if the weather was in agreement, there was a deafening
crash of thunder and strike of lightening lit up the woods around us. We all
screamed as the surrounding trees formed into an ever approaching army of
ghost-like figures, just waiting to add us into their ranks. “OH MY
GAAAAHHHHDDDD. WE’RE GONNA DIE!!!!” I screamed, as I ran through the muck back
to the van.
Natalie sunk her foot into the mud as she tried to run after
us. “Guys! Help! It’s like quicksand!” Shannon fell behind to help as Amber as
I swan dove into the van. I stomped on it as mud-covered Shannon and Natalie tumbled
into the back. I wrenched it into reverse, but nothing happened. The van
wouldn’t move. “Oh my God. We’re stuck! We’re stuck and we’re going to die
here!” I cried, hitting the gas harder and harder.
“Stop doing that! You’re making it worse!” Shannon screamed.
Natalie, already covered in mud, got out and examined the situation.
She took her time getting back into the van. “Well??? What’s wrong with it?” I
harshly inquired.
“We’re stuck. Duh.”
“THANK YOU, CAPTAIN OBVIOUS!” I shrieked, “You guys are
going to have to push it out.”
“What do you mean, you guys??”
“Well I am obviously the driver. So, I should be the one to
stay within the van. And this wasn’t my idea in the first place. I am but an
innocent victim in all of this!”
I’ll leave out the part where Amber launched herself at me
like a spider monkey. But as it would happen, I found myself outside in the
rain again, shoving a 1992 Plymouth minivan out of a foot-deep mud hole, as
Shannon hit the gas, splattering us all with grave dirt.
After many mud-covered attempts, while the deluge continued,
we finally got the van out of the hole. Shannon didn’t slow down as the last
members of the party sprinted to catch up and flung themselves into the open
door. The van’s previously proven ability to go air-borne came in handy as we
careened out of the woods, because as I looked back at the cemetery, I saw a
girl, dressed in white, was standing at the tree line, waving goodbye. Or did
I??? I honestly don’t remember.
The van would found herself in many more situations at the
hands of a bunch of goofy teenage girls. When my sister moved to Chicago, she
didn’t need a vehicle, so I got to drive her Pontiac Sunfire. It was the end of
the line for Pam the Van. As excited as I was to have a new car to drive to
school, I found myself missing the van. I missed being able to pile in a million
girls after school. I missed being the go-to getaway car for adventures
involving three mega packs of toilet paper and family sized boxes of potato
flakes.
Years later, when I was looking for a mom car, Jared pulled
up some minivans as options. I smiled sweetly, patted him on the back, and
said, “Aw, hell no.”