It's never easy when the love affair ends

by Gerald Ensley in Today's Tallahassee Democrat

Note From Harry - Gerald wrote this article and mentioned Lulu and I. It seems bloggers like to quote bloggers. Gerald writes a column for the Democrat for the last 40 years.

It’s not like I ever really loved the car.

It’s a 1994 Volvo 940 sedan. It was always too cramped for me. And it had no amenities. The Swedes put all their efforts into making crash-proof cars with good engines. They don’t worry about creature comforts like cup holders.

But it was my wife’s car for 12 years. And I confess I had a lump in my throat when we sold it Monday. For 12 years, it was a part of my life. I’d see it in traffic, and maneuver up at a traffic light to surprise my wife with a goofy gesture. I’d see it in the garage every day and stand on the fenders to get to things on the shelves. I washed it, cleaned it, took it to be repaired at Popular Mechanix (whose superb Volvo-only operation is half the reason we hung on to it so long).

So I felt sad to let it go. I get that way about cars.

I’m not a car guy in the traditional sense. I’m not a classic car buff who can tell you the differences between, say, 1956 and 1957 Chevys. I don’t follow NASCAR, don’t read Car and Driver. I don’t work on cars — although before cars got complicated, I could change my oil, change my spark plugs and even once adjusted my carburetor (when cars had carburetors).

But I’ve had relationships with all the cars I’ve owned. The cliché is cars are like women (fill in your own punch line). But I’ve had only four or five long-term relationships with women. I’ve had heartfelt relationships with more than a dozen cars. I’ve been sad almost every time I had to let one go. The cars, I mean.

Some folks don’t have that problem. Retired schoolteacher Harry Everhart has owned 67 cars over 47 years. If Harry sees a car he likes, he buys it. When he gets tired of it, he fixes it up and sells it.

But he doesn’t shed any tears.

“I like cars, I like to play with cars,” Everhart said. “But once I’m done with a car, I’m done.”

I struggle to let go — even when there is good reason.

My “first” car was a 1950s-era Fiat that belonged to a neighbor who completely disassembled the engine one night in a drunken revel. He never got around to rebuilding it before he had to move. So he sold it to my father with the assurance, “all the parts are in this box.” They weren’t. And the only time I “drove” it was while it was being towed to the garage.

My next car was a Rambler, whose engine blew up on a trip to Orlando (which I had been forbidden to take). My next car was a Corvair, whose rear engine fell out at McDonald’s (and which I later drove to Tallahassee on three cylinders because the mechanic failed to reconnect three spark plug wires). That was followed by a VW Beetle, whose engine also blew up (hours before I was to leave on a trip). That was followed by a Mercury Comet I accidentally threw into reverse at 60 mph (then let sit in front of my house for two months until I learned the automatic shut-off was only temporary). And that was followed by a Plymouth Belvedere that was great until I ran a stop sign and got smashed by another car.

All those cars had some redeemable feature, from the Rambler’s lay-back front seats, to the Corvair’s sleek lines, to the VW’s sunroof, to the Belvedere’s push-button transmission. I was fond of each of them in their way, and sighed a bit at the departure of each.

It wasn’t until I got to a Chevy Nova that I stopped having disasters with cars — and began to really develop relationships. From the Nova to a Buick Regal to a Chevrolet Monte Carlo through the first two of my three Ford Explorers, the day I traded them in was wrenching.

There I’d be on a car lot, cleaning out the trunk, finding treasures and souvenirs under the seats and realizing, “This is the last time I’ll see you.” I’d flash on all the trips each car had made. All the hours I sat at that wheel. All the people who had been in that car.

Sure, each time I was excited to get a new car (as we did when replacing the Volvo). But I couldn’t believe something that had been a major part of my life would soon belong to someone else. It was more difficult than losing a girlfriend, because cars never yell at you.

Everhart can kind of relate. He also has a story for every car he’s ever owned, from a school bus he converted into an RV only to have it blow its engine on its maiden voyage, to a four-cylinder Chevette he used to tow a camper and four people on a 30-day trip around the nation, to his wife’s 1986 Dodge convertible, which has only 15,000 miles on it — and which his wife, Nancy, adores.

“So I have memories,” he said. “But needless to say, Nancy falls more in love with inanimate objects than I do. Maybe I’m lucky.”

Maybe he is.