Goodbye to the Jeep
Funny isn’t it how you can get attached to a car. And you don’t even realize how much until the guy from the car dealership drives it off for good. That’s when you think, “I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”
And what would you say anyway? “You’ve been a good one to me, little fella’. I hate to part, but you’re going to a better place. Somewhere where you’ll have a good family, an open field to play in and all the mid-grade fuel and proper oil changes a youngin’ like you can stand.”
Funny, isn’t it?
You make a decision to get a new car, you’re all decided on getting rid of the old one, and it’s not until you go to get all your stuff out that you realize how much you’re going to miss it.
We bought a new car this past weekend after thinking on it for months. The old 1993 Jeep Cherokee was perfect for what it was — a beach vehicle, a dog limo, and ideal for hauling loads of lumber and other materials that snooty models would turn their noses up at. “Monsieur, you will not put that stinky rubbish on my fine carpet. I’m going to Starbucks. You find other transportation.”
The Jeep had no major problems, which made it even harder to let go. At lumberyards, it egged me on to keep loading wood until the shocks had bottomed out and the tailpipe dragged the ground. “I think I can take one more 2X4,” it groaned as people stared in amazement and wondered if they should take a picture or call the cops.
The Jeep was unstoppable. Relentless. Powerful. Dutiful. Faithful. And I returned the favor by putting it out to pasture for someone younger and flashier.
But it was getting up there in years, and with a baby, it just wasn’t the right vehicle anymore. It had become — and I hope he’s not reading the paper somewhere as I write this — obsolete for the Thompsons.
Oh, the pain to say it.
So we traded it in, and the guy from the dealership came to my house to pick it up as I hurriedly cleaned out my stuff. Look, the surf wax comb I’d been searching for the past year! Ah, the spot on the carpet where the dog had to sit after she rolled in the dead flounder. Good stinky memories.
There’s my little Swiss Army knife that I always kept in there in case I had to fight off bandits or zombies. The three worthless toolboxes that never held a single tool I needed when I was in a pinch on the side of the road with a mechanical failure.
The roof rack straps that had been to hell and back, and had the frequent flyer miles to prove it.
The layers of concrete, sand and woodchips that were so thick in the carpets that they had formed their own patented surface — highly durable and now for sale at most automotive stores.
The CD player that I had just figured out how to change the clock.
The tinted windows that the dog had scratched up so bad that if you stared at them long enough, you could see a savannah of African reed grass stretching off to the horizon. People often got in the car, looked at the windows and then asked me, “Did you used to transport bears in here?”
“Worse,” I would tell them deadpan. “Sharks!”
I loved that Jeep. It had such a distinctive engine noise — low and a little tinny — that I could always recognize when it was coming. Yet there I was, letting someone else drive it away for good.
Great car. Great memories. I’ll never forget it. Live long little Jeep in your new home. I’ll see if this new vehicle can live up to the 17 tons of lumber you could haul or a dog with diamond-tipped nails.