My Car

I love my car. Not in any of the three Greek senses do I love her*, but I do so rather as one may love an inanimate object with which one is well acquainted and comfortable. The more do I love it as I reflect on how much of an unmitigated blessing it was to me. We have spent quite a bit of time together over the last year, and had some adventures, but let me tell you how we met.

Concurrently with seeking a job last year, I began car-shopping. Given my rural location, a mode of transportation faster than my legs or a bike is almost a necessity.

I am not picky in my cars. I’ve never been interested in sports cars; if I ever wanted to be “cool” by means of my conveyance, I effectively killed that possibility by starting off in a 12-passenger van. And, frankly, my dream car is a pre-1990 Ford F-150. Someday when I’m retired and can afford the gas, I’d still like to get one. But in the meantime, I have been perfectly content with the idea of starting off with a sedan or station wagon. Some wags might suggest that the only reason I would want a family car is as a selling point (with the parents, at least) when the time should come for me to a go a-courtin’:

“Oh, Mama, Henry has such a beautiful Ford Mustang; he’d drive safely with me, though, I’m sure.”
“Yes, but honey, don’t you think that a 5-seat sedan is much better for a couple planning to start a family?”
“But Mama, it’s so mundane…I can’t be a soccer mom from the very beginning of the courtship!”
“Well, it could be worse: he could have a mini-van.”

But that advantage aside (and though I didn’t choose it for that purpose, I’m not about to spurn the hand of Providence, either), sedans are cheaper on all counts—initial cost, gas, and insurance. Oh, insurance. What a curse did Cain lay upon all succeeding young men when he rashly beat his brother—one may justly suppose that he was also one for camel-races. Be that what it may, we young men have a reputation for being high liabilities on insurance policies. Young men with sports cars only exacerbate the problem. So, as a part of my Christian duty (and in keeping with my constitutional aversion to spending money on frivolities), I alleviated the problem by desiring a sedan.

Some fellow drivers would say that I don’t alleviate the problem at all; I’ll just say that I’ve not touched another car once, but there were times when it was grace alone that I didn’t. There was the time that I spun it over a ten-foot dirt embankment, but that’s another story for another time….

I preferred American-made cars, but that was not a big sticking point. My dad asked me what color I’d prefer, and I discovered that I did not have much of a preference—except that I detest yellow and all pastel shades. I hinted that I would paint whatever car I bought with military-issue olive drab anyway, but it was hinted in return that such a monstrosity would not reside on the premises, so that idea died in committee and my mental senate returned to maintaining the status quo (yes, I have one of those).

When it got down to it, I was planning (and dreading) to spend rather more than I wanted to on even a used car. Oh, ye of little faith. My dad is pretty good friends with a deacon in our church, who, by God’s providence, was looking for a minivan for his growing family at the same time. He had a 1998 Ford Taurus and was willing to sell it when they bought the minivan.

Now, let me say this about the Ford Taurus: it is a nice-looking car, and common enough that it doesn’t stick out. Actually, common enough that it occurs quite often—eerily so—that I park and find four other Tauruses and a Mercury Sable or two in the same row. If I’m not mistaken, it was the most widely sold car in its class while it was made. Given that I hate flashy things and like to blend in (without fitting in), this was a perfect fit. Oh, and the color was dark green. Score!

The bluebook value was in the $2,500-$3,000 range, but it had been salvaged anyway, and the transmission had some minor trouble—only that it leaked enough that it required a few bottles of fluid a year—so he took off the price of a new transmission in anticipation for my eventually replacing that.

That brought it down to a much more palatable price, which I was prepared to pay; and then my parents decided to bless me even further by paying the good deacon themselves. That made the sticker shock upon taking it to the DMV rather easier to handle...

My car has her* idiosyncrasies, of course, but then again, she puts up with me. On occasion, there will be an electronic beeping for no apparent reason (it did this for the former owners, too, and the car folks had no idea what caused it), but this is in keeping with the weird habits of pretty much all of my electronic equipment. I suppose if my car can handle the lengthy lectures I give her on random subjects, I can handle a little bit of reciprocal conversation. I can probably make more sense of that electronic beeping than anyone can of what I ramble on about, anyway.

But in all seriousness, I was more than blessed with my Ford Taurus, on all counts. Even besides the money-for-a-car-or-for-school issue (the solving of which was immeasurable grace by itself), everything about it, from the type of car to the color, was amazingly orchestrated (and was far more than I deserve). And, of course, we get along well, and there is easily enough room in the back seat and trunk for my guitars and amps, my other loves…but that will have to wait for another post.

Until then,
Colin



*Of course a car takes the female pronoun. She certainly has a personality, and the masculine wouldn’t sound quite right. Her name is Good Queen Bess, but that’s a story in itself.