The assignment behind this essay is to write an open letter to ones car. Parent Bloggers Network is hosting a contest to publicize AskPatty's newest initiative - CarBlabber.   

It would not be fair, or even interesting, to write about my car because aside from having a functioning air conditioner, it means nothing to me.  Truthfully, I have never valued a car for its workmanship or engineering feats, but I do value the experiences that I have had in cars.   So, to the best of my ability I am fulfilling the rules of the contest by including the make and model of my car in the title, but my letter goes to:

All The Cars I Have Wrecked (and Neglected) Before,

When I was 7-years old my cousin Frederick and I regularly stole my grandmother’s car.  One of my favorite memories is the thrill I felt when I grabbed the knob on the gearshift of the spring green Impala and slipped the powerful V8 engine into drive. Holding the big steering wheel and trying to peer over the dashboard while pressing my bare foot on the gas pedal was a challenge, but the payoff was ginormous. Frederick stood at the front door of my grandmother’s house and kept watch on the snoozing senior to make sure she continued to pretend to watch Hawaii 5-0. Meanwhile I slowly backed the car down the long driveway and then gunned the beast back towards the house as fast as I could before the driveway ended. Despite the ruts in the dirt, my grandmother was never the wiser that her young grandchildren were driving her car. We always gingerly placed her macramé key ring back on her dressing table making sure that not a single key clinked against the marble.

Seven summers later the car-thieving tendency continued. My friend and I became tired of passing the summer days talking on the phone to each other. Ingeniously, I located the keys to the lonely car sitting in my driveway and zipped over to visit my friend in person. After the excitement of the visit wore off we upped the ante and drove to McDonalds…then the next day we added a stop to 7-11…then the next day we added a two-hour trip to the beach.  We always got back before my parents returned from work, and the car was always filled with the same amount of gas that it had at the beginning of the day. Sometimes this meant filling the car with .50 of gas and on beach days, much more.

During my freshman year of high school my mother took me out for a driving lesson in her humongous Lincoln Town Car. She was impressed with my natural ability to control the car and the ease with which I whipped the super-sized car into a parking space.  I guess she was impressed enough to buy me a Datsun 200SX with a sunroof and personalized IM BITZ license plates. 

The sporty two-tone copper and brown car was a first generation “talking” car.  The car made statements like “Fuel is low” and “Key is in the ignition” but the funniest thing it said was “Door is ajar.”  For some reason when the car was packed with teenagers, it was hilariously funny to hear the car say “Door is a jar.”  We roared with laughter that a door could be a jar.  Maybe it was the beer.

The poor 200SX met a bad demise when I drove it off of a Houston overpass and marveled at how it flew, then landed FLAT (read splat) onto a grassy knoll. The car bounced and our heads, despite seatbelts, smashed into the roof. Instead of dealing with the wrecked car, I abandoned it and my friends and flagged down a random car on the freeway to whisk me away from my error.

It was really nice of the man who picked me up on the side of the freeway not to rape or kill me. I was busy crying in the backseat as he silently taxied me around the 610 Loop for about an hour. Finally, I quit crying and brusquely asked him where he was taking me. The stranger confessed he had no plan and would take me wherever I needed to go. After I climbed into the window of my friend’s house, I bid the stranger goodnight and thanked him for not killing me.

The next car was a neat and tidy four-door Nissan Sentra.  I took the Sentra to college and drove it across the country from Texas to Virginia many times and never gave it a drop of oil. On a trip home for Christmas the Sentra died in Hattiesburg, Mississippi.  My sweet daddy drove to Mississippi to haul my dead car and me back to Texas. However, my father would not allow the stray dog I was parenting to ride in his car. He made the vomiting dog ride in the towed car.

There have been more cars and more neglect and more memories. By far, the best car memory I have is the six-year old daughter at whom I am looking this minute for she was conceived in a former Ford Expedition.  That was SO two cars ago!

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Add a Value wIT daily visit to your schedule and follow Bitsy’s 30-day experiment of life without a car.

Comments

[mothergoosemouse]

I can't decide which story is my favorite, but I'm leaning toward the one about sailing off the overpass. I've always wondered what that would be like.