The Volkswagen bus is a staple of my childhood, in large part due to my dad. The man has an intrinsic link with the vehicle, and through him, I felt that connection as well. In the summers of my youth, my family would make a habit of taking trips in our camper. The bus was the color of the sky on a hot, cloudless July afternoon. The seats in the back that my sister and I resided in smelled strongly of old fabrics. My sister had a certain disdain for the cheap vinyl interior and the heavy musk inside the cabin — but to me, it felt like coming home.

When my parents told me they were getting a divorce, I was only seven, maybe eight. My mom moved out into an apartment close to school, and for the time being, I was only seeing my dad on the weekends. There was a significant amount of change occurring for everyone in my family simultaneously, and it was easy to get caught up in. My father, who is not a very sentimental man, was purging a lot of our family’s old “stuff” that wouldn’t be as useful moving forward. Among the things lost was the blue bus.

My father had exchanged our family camper for the husk of a much older model. I was heavily suspicious of my father’s judgment, wondering what value there could possibly be in the old hunk of rust. What remained of the paint had mostly faded away, leaving only strange shades of gray and white. The silver trim had mostly fallen off, and the rubber along the windows had cracked and began to crumble into pieces.

For a period of time, nothing was done with the new bus, which needed much more time and attention than could feasibly be given to it. However, when it was time for my dad to leave our old family home behind, he had the bus sent away to a shop that would hopefully bring her back from the dead. I went a long time without seeing the bus, as my dad moved around waiting for a new place to settle, and so the rusted old machine left my mind; that was until one overcast day, when my dad brought me to the shop tasked with her restoration.

The downtrodden weather only accentuated the blandness of the warehouse. The exterior was coated in beige vinyl siding, surrounded by roads filled with other dull, nameless buildings. There were a handful of large garage bay doors that had all been shut, keeping the dreariness of the outdoors from seeping into the building. To the right was a small staircase leading into the building. I followed my dad through the entryway.

I passed through the small foyer into the garage. I was greeted by a pair of men a few years younger than my dad, and behind them was the rusty old bus. I was let down to see that its appearance was relatively the same. Other than some new shiny exhaust tips, the exterior was just as decrepit as ever. I wondered why my dad was so excited. I looked around the shop. The walls were littered with shelves and greasy tools, along with posters for movies too old for me to have ever heard of. The adults conversing around me seemed meaningless, until one of them climbed into the bus, and unleashed the roar of the engine upon my ears.

I left the vinyl covered warehouse full of excitement. My dad made a handful of visits to the garage after that, but I didn’t hear much of the bus for a long while. By the time I was 12, my dad was in the process of moving into a new property. On my way down the driveway one afternoon, I saw the bus perched on the edge of our driveway.

I sat myself along the leather bench seat inside the cabin. My dad turned the key, and for the second time, I experienced the excitement of the machine coming to life. The bus shook, the sounds of loose metal rattling were joined by the aggressive roar of the engine bay, drowning out the peace and quiet of our home. My dad offered me a pair of headphones to block out the overpowering sound. I watched him throw the shifter back and forth as we slowly chugged down the road. Though we couldn’t hear each other over the sound of the bus angrily putting down the road, the experience and joy was shared between the two of us — my father and I making new memories.

The bus was often sedentary, needing fixes here and there, which we would attempt to keep up with. The long winter months were spent cooped up in the garage, hiding from the elements. In the spring, when the weather was warming and the ground thawing, we would take her out of the wintertime prison, only to find three new issues that had popped up, replacing those that we had already addressed. This pattern continued for the next few years, until the spring of 2022, when my dad decided it was time to sell the problematic project car.

I cringed at the idea of selling the Volkswagen. I had begun to take pride in our ownership of the old car, feeling as though it was the closest thing to a birthright as I have ever had. I argued with my dad, appealing to him in every way that  I could think of. Still, my best attempts to draw out his sentimentality remained fruitless.

As I consider my future, and what possibilities lie ahead, it occurs to me that my time with my family is quickly coming to an end. My years of college will be spent largely in another state, away from my dad, and away from the bus. The thought of coming back to a home where the opportunity of riding with my dad is not present frightens me, but perhaps it will be an opportunity for me to find a new project of my own.