Just got back from getting my new car inspected. I’m really
happy to have it, and it’s going to serve me well for many years, I’m sure.
But yesterday, I donated my old car, a Chevy Cavalier Rally Sport, to the American Lung Association, and even knowing how sentimental I can be, I was surprised at how much it pained me to say goodbye.
I bought the car in January of 1999, just a few weeks into dating Kathy. I’d been in an accident that didn’t hurt anyone, but had totaled my previous car. I needed a new one, quick, because Kathy lived close to two hours away, and I had no intention of spending any weekends apart from her, if I could help it. I think I borrowed the family car just once to see her; by the next weekend, I had my Rally Sport. And it traveled the PA and NJ turnpikes nearly every weekend for three years, until we moved in together.
As the tow truck was pulling it away, I said to Kathy, “That’s the car that brought me to you.”
It also managed to let Kathy know I could take a joke. Within a few weeks of me buying it, Kathy and I attended our friends’ wedding out of town. After the reception, one of my friends noticed that the Rally Sport shared my initials, and pointed that out… as if it were some weird manifestation of ego that I had to have a car that shared my initials. And suddenly there were a barrage of comments about the car, all with the letters R.S. “It’s really spiffy” is the one I remember best, but the comments were relentless. Not insulting, but just merciless teasing. And I did my best to take it with good grace, and give as good as I got whenever I saw an opening. And I’d like to think Kathy noticed I was someone who wouldn’t blow a fuse at a little ribbing, and I hope that recommended me.
The Cavalier had a lot of miles on it, so I can relate. Its systems were failing, one by one. First the CD player went. Then the trunk began leaking badly enough that I had to remove the carpeting because it had molded. The back seat no longer had any padding under it (it had molded), and the cushion would occasionally detach from the bench. The air conditioning stopped working several summers ago. And sometime this summer, I was no longer able to direct which heating and cooling vents the air would come out of… which promised a fall and winter of fogged, undefrostable windshields.
It was clearly time to move on.
But still. That was the car that brought me to my wife. Every weekend, for months and years on end, since before she was even my girlfriend, really. I owe it a debt.
There was a photo of us, a Polaroid, in the change well of the Cavalier. Four photos, shot in a boardwalk booth, of Kathy and I, smooching and grinning like crazy. We both have more hair than we do now, and it’s clear we’re over-the-moon in love.
You can bet that photo is in the center console of my new car. It’s a smooth ride, and the air conditioning works, but it has a lot to live up to.