In 2011, our family bought two used Honda Civics, one for our son, and one for our daughter. Our son was working full-time, and the Civic he got was the first car to be entirely in his name. Our daughter was an out-of-state college student, and we thought it would be good for her to have a car there.
Our daughter’s Civic was a cute, little, red car with an automatic transmission. She named it Bingley after a Jane Austen character, and she and I drove it across country to get it to her college. Sadly, Bingley only survived about a month there. A man in a tow truck going about 45 miles an hour rear ended my daughter and Bingley sending them over a curb and flipping them upside down. Bingley was totaled. My daughter was shaken up and sore, but miracle of miracles, she was okay.
Our son’s Civic was a sporty, silver car with a five-speed manual transmission. He never named it, but as the miles and years went on, poor What’s-Its-Name slowly fell apart. The inner parts of the doors were not connected correctly to the outer parts of the doors, so in order to close them from the inside, one had to grab where the door met the window to pull it shut. The windshield was cracked. The air conditioning stopped working. The key fob and auto lock were broken, so he had to lock/unlock each door separately and follow a series of steps to keep the alarm from sounding. The engine, etc. was wearing out. Finally, our mechanic told him that it was time. What’s-Its-Name went to the junk yard. About a week later, my husband asked my son if he missed the Civic. The answer was that he did not miss the things that were wrong with the car, but he did miss the car because of the memories he had made driving it. He had grown up as the car grew old.
The conversation made me remember the first car that was entirely my own. It was a blue Chevy Malibu that was new when my uncle bought it, used when my brother bought it, and kind of a mess when my brother sold it to me. By the time I was done with it, the stuffing was out of the driver’s seat, so I had to shove rag towels down into the hole so I could see over the dashboard. The seal around the windows had worn off, so whatever weather happened outside also came inside. The trunk leaked, so we drilled holes in the bottom to let the water run out. There was no knob on the tuner of the radio. I kept a pair of plyers handy to change the station. The throttle stuck, so it would accelerate on its own. I once got up to 25 miles an hour without ever touching the gas pedal. It probably would have gone faster, but there was a stop sign. When it wasn’t accelerating by itself, it sometimes refused to accelerate at all. There was a time when I had to floor it on the shoulder of the interstate until the engine caught. It was sometimes dangerous to drive, but it was mine! It was the first time I could call a car my own, and like my son, I was both relieved and sad to see it go.
We become attached to things, especially cars, because of the memories we associate with them. The hardest vehicle for me to let go of was our family van. Road trips, loading bikes in and out, car pools, and family activities all took place with that van. When we said goodbye to it, we had to admit that those parts of our lives were over. It truly sunk in that our kids were adults, and those times would not come again. So, enjoy your children and your vehicles while you have them. Appreciate their quirks, imperfections, and idiosyncrasies. That goes for both the cars and the kids.