I paced the mini-mart attached to the former Mobil
station on Nahatan Street, anxious why it was taking so long. My recent
inspection had resulted in a big red rejection sticker, so this was the last
hurrah. The door to the garage finally opened. The verdict was in.
It wasn’t good. The mechanic droned on about oil
leaks and emission standards and emergency brakes and how I shouldn’t have let
Jiffy Lube reset the diagnostics to make the engine light disappear. I had
already decided against taking drastic measures to keep my car on the road, but
it still felt like signing a DNR. While I’d seen it coming–the dashboard’s
warning lights had lit up like Las Vegas–it didn’t lessen the guilt. Or my
grief at having to say farewell to a car I considered family.
While my 2002 Dodge Grand Caravan never climbed Mt.
Washington, it still had plenty of experience under its fan belt. Big Blue, as
my girls called it, had been around the block a few times: 177,144 miles, to be
exact. My hopes of seeing the odometer hit 200,000 were dashed.
I thought of its endearing little quirks: the
passenger-side window that wouldn’t go up, the directional signal that wouldn’t
go off, the total absence of climate control–heat or A/C–toward the end. Plus
the sizeable dent sustained while backing into a telephone pole in Virginia
during our oldest daughter’s college tour that never got fixed. I would miss
them all.
It was the shared adventures over the past ten years
that had cemented our bond. I recalled the family road trip up the coast to PEI
when we had to crank up the volume on the “David Copperfield” tape to drown out
the backseat bickering. The family truckster had deposited the kids at their
first sleepover camps, and was there for the major milestones: the first
parallel park, the first solo drive to Shaw’s, the first fender bender. Big
Blue had safely delivered all four daughters and their bulging duffels to their
freshman dorms as they left the nest one by one, its familiar presence a
comfort on the quiet drive home.
My mini-van became the butt of countless jokes as
the girls got older and urged me to get a cooler car. Somehow they managed to
endure the shame of being seen in a soccer mom-mobile as it transported their
worldly possessions to their first apartments. And to almost every new address
since then.
On our final morning together I cleaned out the car
and backed out of the driveway one last time. We dragged our feet driving to
the dealership where I would become the owner of a slightly used pearl-colored
Prius hybrid. (Big Blue was a shameless gas guzzler.) It felt strange being
behind the wheel of such a clutter-free car. Mostly, it was just sad.
I fought back tears as we were directed past the
shiny new imports to the back lot. I know it’s not normal to get this attached
to an automobile but I’ve never been very good at goodbyes. After thanking Big
Blue for his decade of devoted service, I took a few pictures and murmured an
apology. My cherished chariot would be auctioned off and stripped for parts.
Like Big Blue had done, more than once, I broke down.
Pearl and I have been together for a few years now.
We get along fine. Sure, I appreciate all the little amenities, not to mention
the terrific gas mileage, but it’s not the same. Time is a great healer,
however, and sometimes I went weeks without thinking about my old friend. I was
moving on.
The other day a call came through on my cell phone
from an unfamiliar area code, which I generally ignore. For some reason I
picked up. “This is the USAA Insurance Co. calling from San Antonio. Are you the
owner of a 2002 Dodge Caravan?”
“Uh, I used to be,” I answered, bewildered. How did
he know about Big Blue? And what was it doing in Texas??
“The vehicle was in an accident and you’re listed as
the last insurer.”
Someone, it seemed, had been driving Old Faithful–without
benefit of insurance, but still. Big Blue lived on! Assured that no one was
hurt, I couldn’t stop smiling. I explained the situation to the insurance
agent, who appeared remarkably unmoved by Big Blue’s rise from the ashes. As
Lewis Carroll extolled in “Jabberwocky” (call no.: 818.34 Carroll), one of the
few poems I memorized in school, “O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!/He chortled
in his joy.” I felt an inordinate pride in the old boy for refusing to go down
without a fight. Maybe he’d made it to 200K miles after all.
The lift I got from that brief call lasted days, and
really warmed the cockles. As Woody Allen said in the 1975 film “Love and
Death” (call no: DVD Love), “nothing like hot cockles.” Now I was curious to
see what had been written about the complicated relationship between man and
motor car. I found plenty of blogs, but couldn’t locate a single book on the
subject. When it comes to resources on parting ways with your trusty wagon,
you’re basically on your own.
Fortunately, researching your next set of wheels is
a different story. Here the library can definitely help. In addition to the
2016 edition of “The Car Book” by Jack Gillis, you can peruse the annual April
auto issue of “Consumer Reports” in both periodical and online format, as well
as recent issues of “Car and Driver” magazine. For those in the market to buy
or sell a pre-owned vehicle, come to the Reference Desk to consult the N.A.D.A.
“Official Older Used Car Guide” or “Official Used Car Guide” for current
valuations.
And if any of you writers are inspired to fill the
gaping literary void in this often emotionally charged topic, I can guarantee
the Morrill Memorial Library will be first in line to buy your book.
