The Question I Wish I Had Asked
Mixed feelings ran roughshod over me when the tow truck arrived to load up "Bluie," the 19-year-old Toyota station wagon I had reluctantly donated to a local charity. Bluie was more than just an old car; she was a beloved family member.
Bluie rolled into our lives in 1983 when, after 16 years of marriage, we finally graduated to two-car status. Our son Barrett, almost three, was thrilled to repeatedly scuttle from seat to seat as I finalized paperwork at the dealership.
Bluie endeared herself in countless ways. Though seldom used, her four-wheel-drive permitted us to inch across town to visit our daughter Jenny at the Conway Human Development Center while less nimble vehicles were snowbound. Then came the time she willingly allowed me to cram her with five-gallon water bottles. We were almost home before a bump shattered the glass, submerging Bluie's crisp interior.
As a little boy, Barrett delighted to sit in my lap and "drive" by swishing the steering wheel back and forth. When finally old enough to reach the pedals, he sought to improve his skills by backing Bluie down the driveway. But the safe, slow start instantly evaporated when the clutch, brake and accelerator got all confused in his mind. Bluie rocketed backwards across the street, blazing up Mrs. Boots' driveway. A miracle somehow allowed my screams of "Hit the brake!" to prevail before her garage door entered history.
Thus fearing the worst, I repeatedly deferred the agony of teaching Barrett to properly manipulate a manual transmission. But one day an open field beckoned, and he volunteered to teach himself if I would just get out of the car. I did--and he did.
Bucking and hopping like a wild bronco, Bluie eventually eased into a smooth canter as Barrett learned to tame her. And then compelled by his pleas to drive home, a brief season of white-knuckle moments ensued.
Bluie became the designated carrier for Barrett's embryonic lawn care business. Grass bags and gasoline cans were always a dangerous brew, and Bluie suffered visible wear and tear.
As with her owners, old age and hard miles gradually compromised her vitality until she hopped and sputtered--and sometimes refused to start in the mornings. No longer the noble servant of a vanished golden age, she was banished to the driveway for the menial duty of serving as both throne and umbrella for our cats.
So when the tow truck arrived, I pondered: do normal people feel such sadness over the departure of an old car? Bluie was, after all, far more than a hunk of aging blue steel on wheels. Relationships that endure--whether with things or people--must have roots mutually sunk deep into the fertile soil of shared experiences.
But I do wish I had asked my question anyway… even though I still cried.
Copyright 2002 James McAlister
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