AN EMOTIONAL GOODBYE TO MY MECHANICAL MISTRESS, THE FAMILY MINIVAN

 

“Congratulations, you’ll love your new convertible. Just sign here…Mr. McDermott… Mr. McDermott…” said the car dealer.

“Ah, sorry,” I responded.

I was trading in my family minivan to buy my wife’s “new” pre-owned vehicle. During a lull, a torrent of family driving memories came to mind.

I got back to the paperwork while Kate went out to shovel a decade-worth of debris from the auto we no longer owned. I stole another look at the old girl—the van—and fell into an inner dialogue with the two-ton beast. Again, the van.

You’ll be okay. I’m sure a nice family will find you soon enough. You’ll have new kids projectile vomiting in your back seat before you know it.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say. Just remember the good times we had. Like the time Tim closed your sliding door on Pete’s head, or when you shredded your serpentine belt on the way to Dan’s graduation.

I know you’ll be scooped up in no time. People will see your inner beauty and look past Pete’s drive-through scrape, the unclaimed parking garage ding, the ‘what the heck is that’ stain on the back bench and the black gooey mess in all the cup holders.

We saw all your imperfections as endearing qualities. I particularly liked the way you creaked coming to a stop, just like my mother-in-law. Even though the neighbors could hear you blocks away and choked on your exhaust cloud, I think they welcomed the fo-shizzle you brought to our painfully strait-laced developmonizzle.

Don’t be so self-conscious about your incontinence. We saw your fluid stains as asphalt art and will forever cherish your driveway blemishes.

 Your utility was unmatched. You hauled oversized home renovation material with ease. You also dragged countless kids, many of whom I never knew, to after-school activities and transported my family on great vacations. And you did all this while still providing an adequate “no touching zone.”

I’m sure this will be better for you. Your next family will probably be tidier. The dealer will give you a thorough fumigation and scrubbing. Be patient, it may take a few tries to clear the smell of Tim’s dead sea creatures, Dan’s non-breathable Spiderman sneakers, Pete’s lacrosse gear, Matt’s untimely shart incident and gallons of spilt Hershey’s chocolate milk.

I know you regularly needed TLC, but that brought so many benefits. My five-year-old son wowed the neighbors with the “conversation enhancers” he learned from my toiling under your hood. I know Kate complained, but I think she loved making runs to the AutoZone parts store. She got to rub elbows with people who thought of chrome naked lady silhouettes, overly tinted windows and loud performance mufflers as essential equipment. We still get hand-written Christmas cards from auto store managers thanking us for funding their kids’ college tuition.

I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you. You made some of the most important and precious moments of my life possible: overhearing hilarious stories while carting my sons and their friends around town, seeing my family safe, happy and asleep as we drove on countless adventures, enjoying the wonder in my kids’ eyes as we rolled through the Christmas lights displays, me and the boys shaking our booties to my 80s dance mix CD, moving my sons into college and picking them up after their travels abroad. And so much more!

You weren’t perfect, none of us are, but you were always there for us. That’s what makes you family.

Kate woke me from my misty-eyed reminiscing with my mechanical mistress, “Okay, let’s go. I hope we have room for all this crap!…Are you okay?”

It took Kate 15 minutes and two Hefty bags to collect the lacrosse balls, LEGOs, action figures, clothing, petrified food and other stuff I’d rather not mention from the van.  

“I’m all right, let’s go,” I responded through my tightening throat.

Kate was totally taken by her new vehicle . While she fiddled with the new seat, mirrors and other gadgets, I stole one last look at my family minivan.

I know we’ll meet again. Maybe I’ll pass through your exhaust cloud while you valiantly try to accelerate to highway speed. Or maybe I’ll see you in a new form, like a tuna can. Either way, be strong. I’ll never forget you, and thanks for the memories.