A Pensieve Moment: The Old Car

Ten years ago, my grandmother died.  That event alone deserves its own post, but suffice it to say that her death was a tragedy.

Because my grandfather had preceded her in death by two years, their estate was settled and divided when she died, and within that estate were three cars:  a new Toyota Corolla, a Model A Ford (I believe it was from the 1930's), and a 1970 Monte Carlo, painted Buster Brown.

I spent every summer with those two wonderful people, and I owe much of anything good that I am to them.  Growing up with them, I was taken on weekly Sunday drives through their neighborhood in Tallahassee in the Model A, riding in the rumble seat.  (I have pictures of myself doing this, but my childhood photo albums are currently being held hostage and are unavailable.)  Like many things my grandparents did, I took for granted those experiences as being normal, everyday occurrences that most children had.  It took me growing up, and talking to other people, to realize that I was given a multitude of unique and cherished experiences by them.

The second car was an everyday car.  The 1970 Monte Carlo was only six years old when I moved in with my grandparents, although it belonged to my Aunt Michelle for several years.  When she wanted a new car, my granddad took the Monte Carlo back.

The older I got, the more I realized what a cool car it was.  (Again, I have pictures of it, but they will have to wait to be posted until a later time...)  It was a muscle car.  While my grandmother hated it when she ended up needing to take it to the grocery store or for any other reason, my granddad loved that car.  He took excellent care of it, and when it needed to be repainted, he kept it the same Buster Brown shade.

I don't know that I loved the car as much as I loved riding in the car with my granddad.  If I was in the car with him, it usually meant that we were alone, and that was the best part of it all.  I can remember my legs sweating on the leather seats, and I can almost smell the inside of the car.  Leather, and sweat, and gasoline, all mixed with my granddad's aftershave and hair tonic.  And wherever we ended up going, he would introduce me to everyone and a bragging session about his "gorgeous ding-a-ling" granddaughter would ensue.  Such a sweet, visceral memory.

When my G-mother died, the cars were divided amongst her children.  Chuck got the Model A, although he's such a bum that he couldn't figure out how to get it to Seattle, so it went home with Michelle.  Tim got the Monte Carlo.

You can't even know how much I wanted that car.  It was so much more to me than just a metal body on four wheels.  It was memories.  But no matter what we tried (even offering to buy it from them), Tim said "no".  He was planning on giving it to one of his kids.

So, unbeknownst to me, John started looking around for a different Monte Carlo.  Same year and model, but obviously not the one that my granddad owned.  And surprisingly enough, he found one just down the road.  A black 1970 Monte Carlo, but a Monte Carlo just the same.

It's funny too, because John calls our own Monte Carlo "the old car" just like my G-mother used to.

I loved it at first, because according to John, it was a gift for me.  But I soon saw that it was really a car for John.  When he asked me what I wanted to paint it, I replied "cherry red".  However, he nixed that plan and just had it repainted black...which it already was.  Thinking about it now, I would definitely go back to the Buster Brown color I know and love.  Too, John didn't want to keep it outside (covered or not).  He stored it in our extra garage which meant that one of our everyday driving cars was always sitting outside...and needed to be scraped in the freezing cold mornings.

John loved that car.  He loves it now.  And for some reason, the rest of us decided that we didn't like it anymore.  We would pull it out for pictures at dances, and we would take parties of kids to dinner and dances in it, but when John wanted to take it out to dinner, the chorus of complaints would begin.

So, a couple of months ago, John decided to sell it.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  Honestly, the thought of being able to pull all of our cars into the garage felt like heaven to me.  And the old car does take time.  It needs attention and care, and John was tired of worrying about it.

This past week, I ended up at home with no car keys.  John was at fault the most, but I can't blame him completely because with Glo driving Greenie to school each day, we've basically been playing car musical chairs...and it's been confusing.  The only set of keys I had were the keys to the Monte Carlo.

I don't know why, but I balked at taking it.  In fact, it wasn't until the next morning when I was desperate to go grocery shopping that I caved.

I have absolutely no idea why I have refused to love that car, because once I was behind the wheel

and heading down the driveway, a flood of happy feelings and memories came to me.  It was almost like I was there with my granddad again, running some errand.  The car smells like him, and it feels the same as when he would drive it.  And when John and I were dating (in 1988), he had one car:  a 1966 Buick LeSabre which he had rebuilt, so I have many happy memories tied up in old cars.  After all, there aren't many cars left nowadays (if any) that can take SOB curves.  Yep, no seat belts and a bench seat lend themselves well to Slide-Over-Baby curves.  A perfect way for a young man to get his arm around his girl.

And it was then that I texted John and asked him not to sell "the old car".  I know that once it leaves our hands, we won't buy another.  And thinking about grand babies and all the unique, crazy experiences that are awaiting us to give them, I want them to have a Monte Carlo in their childhood memories too.  It seems only right to continue the legacy that was given to me.