She deserves a name, but I haven’t given her one yet.
I told myself I didn’t want to get too attached. She’s a car, that’s all she is.
I told myself I didn’t want to get too attached.
She’s a car, that’s all she is.
But when I saw her waiting in the side lot at the Subaru dealer yesterday instead of in the line-up with the other vehicles ready for reunion with their drivers, I had to shake my head at the audacity of the service crew. She’d been around for ten years and was still going. Didn’t she deserve to be in the pick-up bay with the young, sleek Crosstrek that might have had its first oil change and the shiny Outback that might have needed a tire alignment after a weekend on a dirt road in the mountains in search of the best fall color? Why was my basic, manual transmission Forester, vintage 2010, sidelined from view? Was it the unsexy repair – new hoses and nozzles for the windshield washer sprayer – not glamorous enough for a prime parking spot? Or was it her age? I fingered my white-hair, plastering it behind my ears, as the pony-tailed Subaru service associate walked me out to her.
We passed through the near-carless breezeway under the pavilion adjacent to the showroom, the area where the sassy Crosstrek and sparkling Outback sat ready and waiting for their reunions. In an effort to explain our walk across the parking lot to her location, the limber youth rambled, “Yeah…we’ve been busy today. The pickup lanes got all jammed up.” Then he boot-scooted over to the pasture of asphalt where my car stood.
“I bet,” I laughed. I knew an excuse when I heard one. “She’s an old girl,” I shouted, making sure he could hear me from behind my mask. “She can handle it!” I added.
Then I widened my stride to catch up.
“She looks good for 89,000 miles.” he answered.
“She sure does,” I exclaimed, making sure my posture belied my age. “Knock on wood.” I whispered as I leaned into the driver’s seat and unrolled the window. “Take it easy,” I said as I put her in first gear.
“Yes, ma’am,” the smooth dude said as he waved me to the exit then took off running to the service bay.
As I hit the open road and shifted into overdrive, I decided. It was time to name her. Sister, she would be. Sister Sadie. She had been with me from Texas to California by way of southern Colorado over the rises and depths of my life for a full decade. We were family. In it for the long haul. And I promised to keep her in tiptop shape as long as I could.