When I was in high school there was a 1957 Nomad in my neighborhood. It sat rusting away in a backyard a couple of kilometers from school. Every week, I’d ride that two kilometer detour to see “my” Nomad. You could say that I became obsessed. For a kid in Winnipeg who was skiing and biking before he was walking… it’s not really a surprise.
A few times I went as far as knocking on the door to find out more. Who’s was it? Why was it sitting there? How much was it? (Where I was going to get the money to buy it if I ever found out the price was outside the headspace of my 15-year-old self.) No one ever answered the door. 

So I kept riding by. 
It was the fall of ’93 and I’d come back from another summer at the lake. I promptly picked up my old habit and detoured by the Nomad. IT. WAS. GONE.
I ran up to the house and knocked on the door. The new owners told me the elderly widow had moved to a care home and my beloved Nomad had moved on to a family member. I was crushed.
The 1957 Nomad wagon is, to this day, my Polkaroo. Will I ever see her? Will she ever cross the threshold of my garage? Will I ever have my chance to drive her?