A terrifying trip down Memory Lane in a white Ford Granada

“Wow, look at that!” I exclaim as we pull into the left lane to pass a beat-up white 1976 Ford Granada with a padded vinyl roof.

“Look at what?” my wife asks.

“That car. We had one just like it.”

“When?”

“In Chicago.”

“I don’t remember a car like that. What kind is it?”

“A Ford Granada. You drove it every day for two years. You’d drop me off at work then continue on to your job.”

“No I didn’t."

“We bought it from a dealer in Evanston right after we moved there and found out it was going to cost $110 a month to park both our cars in the garage. We traded in your old blue Plymouth Belvedere and my yellow Mustang you couldn’t drive because it was a stick shift.”

“What kind of car did you say it was?”

"A Ford Granada. First car we ever had with an FM radio. It had a 302 V-8 and a green interior. We sold it back to the dealer a couple of days before we moved to New York." 

"You’re making this up."

"Why would I make that up? You’re getting senile. You scare me."

“Remember when we went to Granada?"

"No. What are you talking about?"

"On that trip to Spain the summer before we moved to New York."

"We didn’t go to Granada. We went to Malaga and Marbella but we most definitely didn't go to Granada."

"Yes we did. One day we decided we’d spent too much time on the beach so we drove to Granada to see the Alhambra."

"No we didn’t."

"Granada’s up in the mountains. The road was twisty. I was terrified. You were going too fast. You always do. Slow down.”

"You’re out of your mind."

"We toured the castle. It was built by the Moors. Then we walked the grounds. They were beautiful. We bought a copy of The Alhambra in the gift shop."

"By James Fenimore Cooper?"

"Washington Irving. It’s in the bookcase in the den. I’ll show you when we get home."

"No you won’t because you're delusional."

"You’re delusional. If we’d had a car like that, which we didn't, I’d remember it. You're scaring me. How could you forget the Alhambra? It was magnificent."

"If we’d been to Granada, which we haven’t, I’d remember it."

When we arrive home she pulls a book from the shelf and hands it to me triumphantly. “The Alhambra by Washington Irving. Printed in Spain in 1978. Why would we have this if we hadn’t bought it in Granada?"

I go to a closet and emerge 10 minutes later with an album containing a photo of her wearing a blue down jacket and stocking cap, standing next to a white Ford Granada with a padded roof.

"Who did you say you are again?" she asks.

We laugh. But not too hard.