Goodbye to an Old Friend

For the past 20 years, I've driven a White Chevy Venture Mini-Van, affectionately known as White Lightning. Ten years before that I drove a white Chevy station wagon, complete with the rear-facing back seat that my kids always called the trunk. (I got a few looks when the kids would ask publicly if it was their turn to ride in the trunk.)

In short, I've driven a Mom Machine for more than half of my life, putting a grand total of 550,000 miles on those  vehicles while rarely driving  any further than 30 miles from home.

To offer full disclosure, the Mini-Van was actually 2 vans. My first died on me after 200,000 + miles, and my dad found another one EXACTLY THE SAME, except for the mileage, and I managed to put another 100,000 on it. Most people didn't even know White Lightning had been replaced with Junior, and, even for me, the memories of the two meld into one.

Anyway, I've been thinking about getting a "new-to-me" car in recent months, with a steady nudge from Walter along the way. When I announced it was time a few months ago, Walter jumped into action with Consumer Reports and safety features and tech plugs and fuel efficiency.

I asked for something that sat up higher than a car, and had room for my dog and a car-seat for my associate. (You probably have guessed that Walter is a more responsible consumer and did ALL of the leg work on this purchase.) The man even set a day aside in his calendar for boots on the ground shopping.

That day was a Saturday. A very abnormally hot day for October. The day when 4 guys were crawling around on the top of our house replacing a roof. The day when Susan Collins walked away from her place in history as a woman's advocate by voting in favor of Kavanaugh's appointment to the Supreme Court Justice. But, I'm getting off the subject. . .

So within a very short period of time, we test drove, put a hold on a little SUV, filled out the paper work, got an offer for Junior and went home to think for awhile. Well, actually Walter thought while I took a little nap.

After our thinking (and sleeping), we both gave the car a thumbs up, and decided to go back to make the final purchase.

At that point, it hit me. My beloved van would not be making the trip home with us.

 As I took her on her final spin, the tears began to fall. The woman, who doesn't cry at funerals or during documentaries about Mr. Rogers or even when Old Yeller meets his end, was crying over a 1998 Venture Van with rust on the panel and too many digits on the odometer.

I cried the sad kind of tears, the kind where you blink really big and use your t-shirt to wipe them off before they fall too far down your cheeks.

I cried embarrassed tears, asking Walter to not look at me while he patted my leg.

I cried tears that made me angry. After all, this van was a material piece of metal (and rust) and the Buddhist-wannabe in me deigned any connection with a thing.

But here I was crying for the children that used to ride in her, the teenagers that argued, the slightly tipsy teachers I drove back home as the teetotaler of the bunch. I cried for all of the Cross Country meets and college visits.

 I cried for the trips to to the farm with my dog riding shotgun. I cried for the day I left my 25 year old marriage with that van carrying everything that I dared to take with me. I cried for the countless trips to psychiatrists and counselors and nutritionists.

I cried for trips to the zoo and Science Center trips, for the trips to rallies and protests, to churches, to friends' homes, to Kroger and, of course, to school.

I cried for it all, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane, and the profound.

It was a tough goodbye.

By the time Walter and I made it back to the dealer my tears had slowed and I knew that it was time.  She had served me well, and I will always remember her fondly.

As we loaded into our new car, I gently patted the Old Girl's hood as I passed her, but I didn't look back as we drove off the lot.

New adventures await me in the driver's seat of my new car and I'm excited for the future. May Ruth* serve me as faithfully as those who've gone before her. Thanks be to God.



*Note: I was determined that I would not associate the first day of this car's life with the confirmation of Kavanaugh so I named her for the Notorious RBG.