I want to introduce you at greater length to my new site coordinator.

A man of talent and ambition. Soft spoken and hard driven. Thank you, Nu, for all you've accomplished and all that is yet to come.

I fear this is going to be a scattered blog. No news from anywhere or anyone about those agency issues. Just kids getting deeper and deeper into a downward spiral and me wringing my hands ineffectually and sending out, via this blog, pleas for help. For all those at furiousseasons.com, I say "Help!" even louder; if you hear me, let's talk. You may have some new ideas and a different insight, and frankly, I am blind right now.

We have been talking for years now about getting a larger vehicle. My seven-passenger van with 116,000 miles on it eats gas like Bugs Bunny eats carrots and doesn't run in the rain. We are negotiating for a used city bus (a small one); my husband (of course) will do maintenance. I presently drive 2 1/2 to 3 hours a day picking up kids. All excited and happy, I talked to my teen kids about the golden chariot first. There was dead air. Silence. For once, they had absolutely nothing to say. I asked them if they were speechless from joy; no, they were dumb with dismay. "We like riding with you," Hannah said. "We like to jack up the radio and sing along," said Kiki.

I am reminded that on Mondays I take the ballet crowd out for hot dogs and pizza. I am reminded that we often sit in the dark outside their front doors and solve all the problems in the world, or try to anyway.

I am reminded that we have impromptu groups in the car where we actually have utter and complete privacy and work out arguments before they turn into physical violence. That my car is the place where they can turn their face to the window and whisper which cannot be said aloud. I am reminded how they weep and scream and pound their fists on the battered upholstery. This is the spot where forgiveness dwells and hugs and hours and hours of tears and comfort.

Couples break up in my car, or come together in my car. Confessions are made and triumphs are aired. Gossip is analyzed -- most of which, like most gossip, turns out to be false. Relationships are forged, broken and mended here. Things that cannot be said anywhere else are spoken here. Acceptance is here. Love and compassion bloom every day inside my car.

To look at it, you would not guess it is so beloved. Here is the place that someone stuck a knife into the upholstery rather than in themselves. Here are the front windows that don't always work, and when they do, they run on a backwards track. Email me and I'll explain that one. The car itself has a permanent odor of dirty diapers, pizza, spilled juice, melted Popsicles and feet. No one cares though. Here is where Creesha had a driving lesson and backed into a school bus. Here are the big long windows that got smashed when the car was broken into. Here is the wobbly back seat that we never figured out how to make stable after we flip it down for the food bank.

This is the car the whole city knows. As I drive along solo or with others, people cry out, "Hey Judy! Still open? Still here? I want to send my kids now, can you come pick them up? I miss QUEST. I got to stop by." This is my car in my little city. This is the van I drive down mean streets late at night. This is my connection to the world I work and live in.

Writing this brings back so many memories. This was my lifeblood for 17 years. Despite its shabby and battered appearance, no one is ashamed they got in. My appearance too is getting a little run down. I'm 68; sometimes I need a cane. My hair gets a little wild at the end of the day and I get tired a lot faster than I used to.

We're a good pair, this car and I, and I have no intention of it or I retiring anytime soon. As long as I am at QUEST, it will be my traveling confessional/office/food truck and chorale rehearsal studio. Hey Baby, we will keep on trucking together. I still don't know how to parallel park, and when the radiator exploded 15 miles from home with eight people in the car, I was not exactly overjoyed. But, we're like an old married couple, and boy it's been and will continue to be and interesting journey.

Tonight, my little crew and I made our weekly trip to "Newest Lunch." This is a consistent police hangout and we all mingle convivially. It's one place where my children can meet and greet police officers on a slightly social basis.

There was an added attraction tonight, however. Two of my girls were invited by a state trooper to come out and visit his official vehicle. I wish they could have been taken for a ride. Perhaps protocol doesn't allow it. But right here, I thank the trooper who took my little girls out and introduced them to his car. We definitely need more intermingling between officials of all kinds at all levels. Most of my youth are fearful of police and at a very tender age yell, "Cops! Get down and hide!" It's nice for them to have a positive interaction with police officers, no matter how brief.

I stand here on an unusually warm evening, resting my elbows on the handicapped railing, surveying my fiefdom. The kids on bikes pedaling by, some displaying guns at their waists, others looking to make a quick deal. I watch a car stop and four prostitutes climb out and approach young boys saying, "Hey, Sweetie. Here's my number. Give me a call." I watch the large Hummers and Cadillac Escalades cruise slowly by, the spinners on their wheels hypnotic and I hear the kids say, "Wow, look at that. I'm going to have one of those when I grow up." I smile and tease, "The woman or the car?" And I think, "Not if I can help it, Sweetie."

I look at my battered old van in the parking lot, patiently waiting for its next load of children.

I salute it.

"Here's looking at you, Kid. It's late, lets go home."

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
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