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The big round table at the Grounds for Divorce had seen its share of arguments, bad jokes, and small-town philosophy sessions, but this afternoon felt different. Chad—the millennial interim manager of the Piggly Wiggly—was on break and, as usual, trying too hard to impress people who’d been sitting at that table longer than he’d been alive.

Lucinda slid him a cup of coffee with that familiar arch of her eyebrow that told everyone she was humoring him. Rusty Hammer was in mid-story about a plumbing order gone wrong when Chad broke in, staring out the window toward the Piggly Wiggly lot.

“Would you look at that,” Chad said, smirking. “Here comes Mrs. Wharton, rolling up in her Granny’s Gran Marquis. I swear, some of these old folks don’t know when to hang it up.”

The table fell quiet. Forks hovered above plates of pecan pie. Even Pastor Peterson tilted his glasses down his nose. Mrs. Wharton, in her late sixties now, was easing her 2004 Mercury into a parking space with more grace than most twenty-somethings managed.

Rusty set his fork down with the weight of a man about to deliver judgment. “Son,” he said, “you just stepped in it.”

“First off,” Rusty continued, “that ain’t no Gran Marquis. That’s a Marauder.”

Chad blinked. “Same thing.”

The table erupted in groans and chuckles. Motcat nearly spit out his coffee.

“Not even close,” Rusty said. “A 2004 Marauder is a 4.6-liter DOHC V8—302 horses, dual exhaust, and a suspension tuned tighter than your budget produce aisle. They only built ‘em a couple years, and every one came blacked out—monochrome trim, 18-inch five-spokes, stance like a streetfighter. That car will eat your Kia for breakfast.”

Lucinda added, “And don’t forget the interior. Leather buckets, white-faced gauges, even an oil pressure dial—none of that nanny-car business. That car’s as close as Mercury ever got to muscle again.”

Chad raised his hands. “Okay, okay. But she’s still a granny.”

That’s when every man at the table reached for his wallet.

“Let me show you something,” said Motcat, flipping open a cracked leather billfold. He pulled out a photo worn soft at the edges. A girl in a halter top leaned against a Dodge Dart Challenger, hair blowing wild, grin as wide as the Pecos. Three friends with her.

“That was my Mrs. Motcat at seventeen,” Motcat said proudly. “She’s still my Mrs. Motcat at sixty-something. Don’t call her a granny.”

Rusty followed with his own: a Polaroid of a brunette perched on the hood of his Buick Skylark like a life-sized hood ornament. “Debbie Jo. First girl in Fort Stockton to beat half the boys in an arm-wrestling contest at the Pecos county fair. And looked a damn sight better than any of ’em while she did.”

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Rex Hall from the Drug Store had one too—his Rosa, high-waisted denim and a Sun Bum T-shirt, leaning against a surfboard strapped to a Chevy van. “She still dances to Santana in the kitchen,” Rex said, chest puffed.

Even Pastor Peterson contributed, though his picture was tucked inside a Bible sleeve. His wife—hair parted down the middle, peace-sign necklace shining—stood beside a Boss Mustang, paint glinting in the summer sun. “She prayed I’d never sell that car,” he said. “I wish she’d got her way. The second child changed those priorities.”

Lucinda leaned across the table. “See, Chad? You call ‘em grannies. We call ‘em our girls. They were the queens of tube tops, denim cut-offs, halter tops with daisies. The sexiest thing to come down the pike without a stitch of makeup or the advice of some ‘influencer.’ They didn’t need filters. They were the filter.”

Even Pastor Peterson nodded before catching himself and fumbling with his glasses. The table roared.

Rusty folded his arms. “You want to understand, son? You gotta know the ‘70s.”

“Better cars,” Rex began. “None of this plastic bumper junk. We’re talking Barracudas, Chargers, Trans Ams with screaming chickens on the hood. Even the grocery-getters had some muscle under ‘em. Hell, the station wagon had a 440 option.”

“Better music too,” said Motcat. “Zeppelin, Skynyrd, Fleetwood Mac—and 8-tracks you had to jam a matchbook under to keep from warbling. You’d roll the windows down, hair blowing, and the whole car would vibrate to the bassline.”

“Don’t forget the fashions,” Lucinda cut in. “Platform shoes, tube tops, bell bottoms wide enough to hide a case of Schlitz. And the hair—straight as a ruler or feathered like Farrah. Girls didn’t scroll TikTok to learn how to strut—they just did it.”

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Delgado leaned forward. “And the parties—CB radios cracklin’, everybody with a handle like ‘Midnight Rider’ or ‘Texas Tornado.’ Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill passed around till the bottle clinked empty, cheap cologne and Marlboros in the air. Somebody cranking ‘East Bound and Down,’ and half the guys swore they were Burt Reynolds. Saturday nights smelled like gasoline, popcorn, and questionable decisions.”

Rusty slapped the table. “And Evel Knievel! Don’t forget him. Every kid tried to jump a bicycle ramp like they were on a Harley. We about broke more collarbones in the ‘70s than in any other decade.”

Pastor Peterson cleared his throat. “And values,” he said gently. “Not just Sunday school, but community. Families sat together. Neighbors knew each other. And yes, women were valued—though not always in the ways they deserved. Still, they carried themselves with a strength that shaped us.”

Rusty chuckled. “And you can bet none of us were sitting around staring at our phones.”

Lucinda wasn’t finished. She pointed her coffee pot at Chad. “Mrs. Wharton? She once got suspended from Jim Bowie High for wearing a tank top to homeroom. She was the girl every boy wanted on the back of his motorcycle. You think she just turned into somebody’s grandmother overnight?”

Rusty leaned in. “She had a ’72 Cutlass Supreme, fire-engine red, Cragars on all four corners. I remember her racing Johnny Fuller out on 285 and beating him soundly.”

Delgado added, “And when disco came through, she could clear a dance floor faster than Travolta’s white suit. West Texas Saturday Night Fever.”

Even Chad had to grin at the idea. Mrs. Wharton, disco queen.

Lucinda softened. “The point is, Chad, those women didn’t just become elders. They lived. They loved. They broke hearts and rules and speed limits. They still do, if you ask right.”

By now Mrs. Wharton had finished her shopping. She wheeled her cart back to the lot, groceries bagged neatly, posture straight. She opened the Marauder with a practiced flick, slid behind the wheel, and lit up the lot with dual exhaust rumble as she pulled out.

Rusty nodded toward the sound. “There it is. You see an old sedan. We hear a muscle car disguised in a suit. Just like those women. They may look like grannies to you, but they’re tuned for more than you realize.”

“Underestimate ‘em, and you’ll get smoked at the light.” Rex grinned. “The right girl leaning up against even a Pinto or a Vega made either one a classic to be admired and sought after.”

Chad looked out the window, a little sheepish now. “I guess I never thought about it like that.”

Delgado slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s because you never lived it, amigo. Me neither. But when I hear about it, I kinda wish I did. In the meantime, the Grounds for Divorce is good for coffee—and lessons.”

Chad drained the last of his coffee. For once, he didn’t try to get the last word. He tucked his phone away and stared a little longer at the spot where the Marauder had idled a moment before.

Lucinda, refilling cups, smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry, Chad. You’ll catch on. Just remember—never call a Marauder a Marquis. And never call a queen a granny.”

The table erupted in laughter, pie plates clinked, and the jukebox in the corner kicked into “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. For a moment, the ‘70s weren’t just a memory—they were alive at the big round table, teaching lessons one cup of coffee at a time.

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