My parents traded in their cars every year or so while I was growing up. Dad would wake up on a Saturday and seem to just need a change. By noon he’d be home with something different. He went from truck, to Cadillac, back to truck, then a Jeep, then another Cadillac.
But Mom liked to keep her cars. Her cars became an extension of herself. She loved them, each one. One I especially remember was her navy blue Oldsmobile station wagon. It had a great cassette player – that’s about all I can remember about it. But I’m sure she could tell still tell you what color the seats were, where things were located on the dash board, and what kind of oil it took.
I remember we traded that one in when I was in Jr. High. Dad really needed some change, and he’d just traded his car, so Mom’s had to go. We ended up buying a Jeep Cherokee that was the color of poop. I can remember the salesman asking Mom and I why we didn’t seem too excited about the change. I was thinking in my head, “Isn’t it obvious? What middleschooler wants to be driven around in a car the color of doo-doo? Honestly…”
Anyway, Mom and I went out to the car to clean out the glove compartment. I was just about to run back into the dealership with my collection of musical soundtracks, when I realized Mom was not getting out of the car. She was talking to the car. She was quietly saying goodbye to the car, thanking “it.” After a very genuine tear was shed, we silently headed back to get the keys to Dad’s newest fix, “The Crap Mobile.”
I thought Mom was really losing it. She was always getting herself attached to things like cars, and especially appliances. I’ve always considered myself immune from this strange disease. But, as I’m getting older I realize, it’s in the genes. There is no escaping…
I’ve found the feelings creeping around inside me as we prepare to put our house up on the market. I’m secretly hoping we can sell it to someone we know and trust, so I can rest assured this blessed house will be well cared for. It has taken such great care of us, I feel I owe “it” in some way. I wish this could be more like an adoption process where I could interview the potential buyers, and screen out folks who don’t look suitable.
I keep running my hands over the counter tops which are on their way out, apologizing to them, in all thier yellow glory, for being so durable and yet, out of date. I feel guilty for tossing them out just because they are, well, ugly. They are in seriously great condition. They deserve – better.
Well, kiss your keyboard and tell your coach you love it – for me.