Back in the days when Sienna was a paint color and Odyssey was a Greek epic— long before car seats, booster seats, rear climate control, iPod interfaces, Bluetooth, and molded cup holders for Triple Venti Non-Fat Caramel Macchiatos—the all-American family car was a Ford Country Squire. Ours was lemon-yellow with faux wood panels, and probably averaged about 14 mpg.
My eldest sister was a teenager and avoided us completely. So on our journeys to the local YMCA on wicked-hot days in August, my brother rode shot-gun and the back bench seat was relegated to my sister and me, where it was all about that invisible-but-never-to-be-crossed line that separated her space from mine. But after we stopped at the farm stand on the way home, the watermelon was always parked at my feet.