By
Susan Wilson
Guest
Columnist
Oak
Bluffs, MA, USA
A few issues back, in Stay Thirsty Magazine, I took a look at my life in dogs from my childhood dogs
to the dog of our earliest empty-nest years (and now the dog of our mature
years). It recently crossed my mind that there are other signifiers as one goes
through life’s journey. In particular, one’s vehicles. There is the first car,
the emblem of youthful freedom; the various family cars, practical but not
sexy; maybe the hobby car after the kids are gone, as there may be more time
and disposable income.
In 1970, I purchased my
first car. I was 19, at the end of my freshman year in community college, and
lucky enough to buy my psychology professor’s 1968
Camaro. It was the car of my
dreams and when Dr. Beck essentially offered it at a rock bottom price, as he
was moving to Hawaii, I jumped on the opportunity (thanks Dad). A dark green,
327, hardtop, three on the floor, low slung and sexy as all get out. Now, I
didn’t drive a stick, but that failing was soon remedied. I needed a boat
cushion to get me forward enough in the bucket seat to see over the dashboard. I
would never have been mistaken for cool, but with the zippy feel of that throaty
engine and a heavy-duty clutch, I felt that I was close. Just add the tie-dyed
tee-shirt, bell bottom jeans and you’ve got the picture. I got my first and
only speeding ticket in that car.
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| Susan Wilson |
Within two days of
ownership, a lumber truck backed into my Camaro and crimped the hood. Then my
sister sideswiped it with our parents’ station wagon and this time the repair
was less than perfect, and the right rear quarter panel was more a shade of
blue than green. But, still. My ride got me from point to point in style. College
graduation, first job. I got married and the Camaro sported the “Just Married”
sign. Things started to go south as we newlyweds struggled to make ends meet
and the Camaro was an expensive car to maintain. Ultimately, it was the price
of gas (which had skyrocketed to fifty cents a gallon!) that tipped the scales,
and in 1976, we made the very painful decision to trade my beloved Camaro in on
a—gasp—Chevette.
The stages of family life
are defined by the kind of car sitting in the driveway. If the Camaro
represented my college years and carefree youth, the Chevette was perfect for a
growing family and accommodated a car seat when we started having kids. It was
bright yellow (remember when cars came out in outrageous colors?) and we drove
it until the floorboards rotted out and the heel of my shoe went through the
rug into air. Next up, a Chevy Cavalier, again, not sporty, but as a compact
wagon, very useful. This one accommodated the collie in the way back and the
two kids in the backseat. That wagon gave way for the quintessential mom van,
the Plymouth Voyager. Two kids, a collie, and now our kids’ friends. Along the
way, we acquired a used Toyota pickup truck for utility purposes. Our two girls
learned how to drive a standard in that teeny truck. Plus, they could only
carry one passenger in it so we felt it was a safe vehicle for high school
students. Eventually that pickup was replaced by a brand new Ford Ranger. Now,
I did love that truck, except that it was useless in snow. Too light, front
wheel drive only, I was stuck more times than I can tell trying to get down the
snowy barn road.
If the Camaro was the
playmobile of my youth, we succumbed to the lure of a 1991 Volkswagen Vanagon
as an automotive plaything in our middle age. Snow White, as we call her, not
only serves as a camper, but is as practical as it gets when the whole family
comes to visit, and she can’t be beat for beach picnics and island tours. Nonetheless,
she is quirky and not always reliable and has taught us quite a bit about
keeping an antique vehicle on the road. For practicality sake, we have the
other VW in our lives, a Jetta that has taken us cross country twice. I like it
well enough, as one likes a good hamburger, but there’s no sizzle.
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| Our Vanagon |
We are not profligate
with our vehicles and have proudly run all of them down to the ground; however,
there is always that moment when we give up on them, when one more repair is
too many. The tipping point for the Toyota pickup was the clutch, so, we gave
it to a friend, and he drove it for several more years. With the Voyager, it
was the timing belt that signed its death warrant and that one went to a
scrapper. The Ranger. This one broke my heart. After years of pouring oil into
it every week, we gave it away.
It wasn’t until I found a
15-year-old Jeep Cherokee, that I realized that my heart had not been automotively
fully engaged. If the Camaro was the car of my youthful dreams, the Jeep was
the SUV of my maturity. Four-wheel drive; body like a tank. A full partner in
my home-to-barn-to-beach lifestyle and perfect for tooling around an island
where the classic Jeep Cherokee is the most common of the genus Islandia
automotivus. There were times when I was one of four old-school Cherokees at a
four-way stop. A true “island car.” Meaning, it’s not suitable for driving on
highways. It never gets on the boat.
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| My Blue Jeep Cherokee |
What makes a car the
automotive equivalent of a soul-mate? This no-frills workhorse suited me in a
way that none of my other cars, with the exception, of course of the Camaro,
ever did. The difference, I think, is that these two vehicles were my cars, my decision. All the others
have been family cars, shopped for and test driven and paid for together;
shared.
My blue Jeep proved its
worth the very first winter I owned it when we had a January blizzard. I was
home alone because my husband was gone with a family emergency off-island, and I
had horses to feed eight miles away. Bless her heart, my neighbor Deb called
and offered to go with me. It was my very first time using four-wheel drive and
it took a bit to figure it out, but I did. Raging snow, wind, and an unplowed
barn road. We got there. We got home. Horses were moderately grateful, although
annoyed at our delay. I swore fealty to the Jeep. It had performed like a
trusty workhorse, uncomplaining and dependable. Worth every penny of the
purchase price. I am a Jeep owner! Hear me roar!
I had promised my Jeep
that I would never give up on it like we had with all the others. I promised
that I would pour money into it and keep it on the road forever. And then, last
winter, the repairs began to mount up. From ordinary maintenance to things that
defied the skills of two capable mechanics. No heat in winter. No air
conditioning in summer. The passenger window wouldn’t roll down, the left hand
seatbelt in the back broke so my grandchildren were forced to sit next to each
other. Still, I wouldn’t give up. I loved that car. The brakes let go—dramatically
as I was in traffic. I got it fixed. Each repair came with the hope that it
would be the last repair for a while. A month. A week. Today. And then the
mystery of why my gauges would fly up into the red even though the car wasn’t
overheating was solved, a cracked cylinder. All the coolant was draining into
it. Can’t it be fixed? I just need a new head, right? I was letting sentiment
overrule sense.
I won’t say that my
family staged an intervention, but they sort of did. The reality is, we were
struggling along with one “good” car (the Jetta) and two old cars, the Vanagon
and the Jeep. How many cars, by the way, do two people need? How big a carbon
footprint do we want to make?
The Jeep had served me
well. It was time to let her go.
The first thing you do
when you’re facing hospice care for a vehicle is go look at shiny new healthy ones.
On a trip to Western Massachusetts, we “car shopped” along the way, noticing
which cars might work for our varied lifestyle. Four-wheel drive, boxy design
(I can’t stand those SUVs that look more like oversized sneakers than cars)
and, most especially, ground clearance. On the day after Thanksgiving, we took
the big step of buying a new (barely used) car.
The new car is a vehicle
much more AI than automobile, with something like 48 on-board computers. Everything
is at my fingertips from radio stations to answering the phone and hearing
texts. Even the four-wheel-drive system only takes the push of a button. I’m
getting used to the backup camera. The heated seats are pretty nice, and the
remote start does make it a far more pleasant early morning trip to the barn. Nonetheless,
whereas I certainly enjoy not wondering every morning if the car will turn over
or be warm just about the time I get where I’m going, every Cherokee I see makes
me grieve a little for my broken friend.
At least until I discovered
the heated windshield wipers. That is pretty special. I’ve also discovered that
dark gray Toyota 4-Runners are evidently as common as Cherokees so I’m still in
the island car club. I haven’t come to a four-way with four of us, but pretty
close to it. Give me time, maybe this
new car will prove it too has soul.
In the meantime, a
mechanically inclined young relative has taken the Jeep. Hopefully he won’t get
his heart broken.
Link:
Susan Wilson
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Susan Wilson is a New York Times bestselling author. Her latest novel is Two Good Dogs.