Two things about a Marty car

This morning, I saw my son off as he drove my old Chevy Venture to his home in Ohio. As he and my daughter-in-law were wanting a vehicle and as I had bought a new old car in June, I did the Dad thing and simply gave them the old van. For their use, doing nothing more than tooling around town where they live, it really should be good for awhile yet.

But it got me to thinking, specifically about the age of the old van but also in general. It was made in 2000: as I remarked to my son before he left, that meant it rolled off the assembly line when he was still in high  school. Now that's putting perspective on things.

Further, I think that it may well be the first time in my life that I passed on a car for continued use rather than selling it for scrap value. As a rule I run my cars into the ground, replacing them only because abject necessity demanded it. I feel okay about the deal though. I took reasonably good care of it. The old Venture truly ought to be all right indefinitely, especially with the relatively limited miles of only driving it in the local environs.

So I've set a new standard for Marty cars. Let's see how long that lasts; probably only until I get rid of my new old van, if I were to, ahem, venture a guess.

Anthropomorphism makes me sad

Now there's a nice, big, college type word for you. A true ten dollar word: anthropomorphism. It means giving human traits to animals or inanimate objects. Yogi Bear for example is anthropomorphic: a bear that walks and talks like a human.

I think we all do that to one degree or another. I find myself doing it with the van I just replaced. I snapped a picture of her yesterday, for old times's sake, for my memory, because I thought she looked sad. As anyone who has ever read The Family Circus comic growing up knows, our old cars feel sad when we give up on them.

As I arrived at the Shop this morning, driving up in my new old van (which I described yesterday) I looked over at my old old one. It's temporarily parked to the side of the old barn as I decide exactly what to do with it. Anyway, I looked over at it and I sighed. Heavily. I'm gonna miss it, that old Chevy Venture. For $1500 four years ago, I got 68,000 miles out of her. We had a lot of good times together, making pickups and deliveries and going on product demos. We must have went to Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula six or eight times. I helped my son get his new stove home with it. She took me to curling many times, to golf and to see friends and family, to Church and to baseball games. How do you not grow an attachment?

She still runs okay. But the transmission ain't right and there's a few other relatively unimportant, minor issues. She could still go on indefinitely. But the time to buy a car, as me Grandpa Joe's old friend Sam said once, is before you need it, before you have to have it. Then you can take the time to look around a bit, and maybe stumble into a good deal like the one I did. It was too good to pass up.

Still, that maroon Venture sits by the old barn today looking tired and worn. And kinda sad. I understand her because, in that odd sort of a very human way, a very anthropomorphic way, I feel kinda sad too.

Sunday morning walkin' round

I went to Meijer yesterday morning to pick up a couple things. No big deal right? I go in, I grab what I want, I pay for everything, I leave. And I can't find my van in the parking lot.

At first, of course, you figure you're simply all turned around. But after going up and down a few aisles frantically clicking your clicker, you begin to think the inevitable: someone stole your car.

By then I was beginning to get mad. I was thinking: I can't believe this! On a Sunday morning no less! Don't thieves sleep too? And who would want that old wreck of a van of mine anyway? A maroon 2000 Chevy Venture with 240,000 miles on it. Why, it looks just like this one here next to me.

This one here next to me. I was standing right next to the stupid thing. To make it official I clicked my clicker. The old girl winked at me playfully.

I have no idea how many times I must have simply looked beyond it. I have no idea why I wasn't hearing the alarm chirp before. And I was still mad.

At myself. Jeez.