Sunday, May 19, 2002
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Sunday, May 19, 2002 |
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Old cars and flowers By
MARY JANE HOLT
She's a beauty, still. Though I don't know how she manages. Faded and worn, she doesn't even a get a decent bath, but maybe twice a year. She hauls books, magazines, plants, potting soil, bird feed and corn. She enjoys loud music when she's on the open road and heaven only knows how many mini-picnics she's hosted over the years. She's seen the desert, the mountains and the ocean. There have been only two others who could compare with her. One was a massive old white '64 Oldsmobile, my first car, and the other was a beautiful grey Crown Victoria I bought in 1986. Yet, I held to neither of them like I am holding to my '93 opal grey Town Car. She rides like a dream. Glides really. My son says the ride is too smooth, though I don't know how that can be. The fact is I love my car. I know, to look at her, inside and out, you might find it hard to believe. I can count on the fingers of one hand the times my granddaughter has climbed in and exclaimed, "Wow, Grangan, your car is so clean and pretty." She loves it too, though. At four years old she has already mastered keeping it between the lines. Since we live about 800 feet off the road, the minute we turn in the driveway, she unbuckles her belt, climbs out of her car seat and over into my lap. I let her take the wheel. I suppose in all of our lives there are those pieces of metal or cloth or wood or something that just matters more than the rest. Like friends, sorta. Those friends with whom we have shared the most joy or pain, or the most life-changing experiences, somehow never leave our hearts although they may move miles away or even pass on from this world. And that is what I fear may happen soon to my old Town Car. Daniel says I don't have to get rid of it. I hate the way he says "get rid of it..." He says we can keep it for a farm car or to drive around if another vehicle is down and out, or in the shop. That brings me little comfort really. You see, he has taken me out several times lately to look at new vehicles. From afar. I don't like them. Iknow I may eventually have to buy one, but I find no comfort in the thought that "ole Grey" might have to be semi-retired. And to have her sit there all the time next to her replacement, as if there could ever be one, brings me even less comfort. Such has been my state of mind in recent days as I prepared to put her in the shop for a checkup and repairs. Her "check air suspension" light came on, and my trunk won't close tight anymore, so I am separated from her just now for a day or two. Of course Daniel took the opportunity, when we took her in for repairs, to encourage me to sit in several new models. Well, actually, the only thing I would sit in was the F-150 four-door pickup and the new Mercury Marquis. The Mercury can't hold a candle to Ole Grey. The pickup would be an option if she didn't hug my butt like she does. I like a smooth seat, not a curved-up one on the sides. I do not like to be cradled and caressed while I'm driving. I like to feel like I'm in control. The newer vehicles have lost something. Designers are missing the mark in a big way. What is there to appreciate about a vehicle designed to hug me while I'm riding and to break away from me in the event of a collision? Give me space and heavy metal any day. But if I can't have that, then flowers may be the next best thing. And would you believe that is exactly what I got? After I turned in Ole Grey for her repairs at Mike Fitzpatrick's Ford/Lincoln/Mercury dealership in Newnan, and after I had sat in several vehicles with Daniel lovingly pointing out all the positives about them, I excused myself, leaving him and a really nice salesman (honest!) to plot alone while I went to the ladies' room. And there they were. Beautiful fresh flowers. No traces of oil or grease anywhere in the spotless, fresh and fragrant bathroom. I figured the secretary to whom I had been talking must have brought in a couple of bouquets left over from Mother's Day. I asked. But no, she said Mike put them there. For Mother's Day? I asked. I still thought they must be tied to a holiday. No, every day, she said. It's his special touch. And that it was. I came away, not dwelling on how upset I was about the new designs or about leaving Ole Grey there for repairs, but just remembering the flowers. Sometimes I worry my gender.
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