New Journeys and Fond Memories

"Ok. Stopping. Damsel officially in distress."

This was the text I sent out, from the side of the highway in rush-hour traffic, the day that Aubergine finally died. She had leaked a lot of coolant, and my mechanic friend and I thought I could make it to his place so he could look at her.

She didn't make it.

My friends came and rescued me, we picked up a trailer, and towed Aubergine back to their place. After a quick look under her hood, I was given my options: I could repair/replace the leak and engine--which would cost more than she was worth--or consider getting a new car a few months earlier than planned.

I signed a DNR on Aubergine. Filled the online donation form for the Kidney Foundation. And prepared my bank account to go car shopping.

The whole experience was a mixed bag of feelings.

Is it weird to say that I grieved my car? Maybe not so much the physical car as much as all the memories and experiences associated within. ...Okay, maybe also the physical car.

I was aiming for September. That would be when I would get a new car. I had anticipated one last summer with Aubergine. A few more months of driving home from work with the windows down and the radio up. Iced coffee in the cup holder instead of hot. A child in the back a couple times a week, excited to go to the best spray park in the city. One more road trip to Saskatchewan. And in a single, overheated engine moment, all those visions became a grey cloud of unknown.

Over the course of the next seven days, I drove seven different vehicles. I borrowed two friend's vehicles to get to work, to the dealership, and run errands. I test drove two different cars. I was pleasantly surprised with the Dodge Dart, so I bought one. In red, even. But soon after driving it off the lot, I realized it was missing features that I was promised it had. Non-negotiable features. I was allowed to drive this car for the next few days while the dealership fixed their mistake, but it was clear that this car would not be a keeper.

The keeper turned out to be grey. And used.* But it had a ton of extra features that I would be getting at no extra cost. And as this was now day seven of not having a car I could call my own, I decided to cut my losses on the colour, and finalize the sale of the grey one. Driving him off the lot, I was admittedly a bit neutral towards him. He still smelled like the previous owner. He shifted a little differently than his red cousin. He was charcoal grey. It was a quiet ride home.

Truth be told, I wasn't all that fond of Aubergine when I first got her. I had spent the previous several years driving around in shiny, red cars, and the car my ex and I had had before her was quite a bit more luxurious (a luxurious lemon, but nevertheless...). Aubergine had a few nice features, but it took me a while to get over the loss of heated seats, a sunroof... and she was eggplant purple with a tan interior. Let's just say, it took some getting used to.

Clearly, Aubergine grew on me.

Early on, I remember the ball head on her gear shift was a little bit loose. Bored at red lights, I would often twist the ball head left and right--just something to keep my fingers busy. At some point, she had been in my mechanic friend's care for the day (tire rotation? Mysterious noise? I don't even remember). When I was driving her home, I came to a red light, and out of habit, gave a little twist. No give! My friend had obviously noticed it when he was driving, and tightened it for me. While I attempted to twist the ball head a few more times, the habit was quickly dropped, and I never really thought about it again for the next five years.

The Dart and I are slowly getting to know each other. He's not a bad little car. He still smells like someone else. And I don't know his name yet. But he likes the same music I do, willingly brings sunshine and fresh air in through his sunroof, and has already proved himself in the bags and boxes I've had to transport over the last few days.

Driving him home the other evening... I'm not even sure what made me do it, but I was waiting at a red light. My hand was tapping gently on the ball head to the beat of the song in my speakers. In the midst of that, my fingers grasped the ball head, and gave it a twist.

It's a little bit loose.

Yup, I think this car might grow on me.



* Considering the Dodge Dart didn't exist before this year**, 'used' is a relative term. It's still a 2013 car, just with a few extra kilometres on it.
** A footnote of my footnote. Can I do that!? I just learned that the Dodge Dart actually DID exist before this year. WAY before this year. My mom informed me, "I believe a Dart was one of your dad's first cars." ...Apples clearly still falling from trees, even when I didn't know the apple was growing.

A Car by Any Other Name...

Please tell me I’m not the only one for whom cars become like another member of the family. Growing up, our family cars always had names. Phrases like, “Can you go get the groceries out of Norm?” or, “Bonnie’s due for an oil change” were common language around our house. I purchased the Honda Civic that I currently drive back in 2005. She was eggplant purple in colour, with a sparkly shimmer. Oh, yes, I knew she was a girl right away. And yet, it was not until several years later that she had a name.

The name has to be right. I tried out a couple names early on, but none of them ever quite fit. And so—while I referred to her as a ‘she’, apologized to her when she got hurt (damn those bullies in parking lots), and kept her looking pretty both inside and out—she remained fairly anonymous. But with all we shared together, it bugged me that I didn’t know her name.

She and I have looped our way through pretty much every street and avenue in the City of Edmonton. We sit in traffic together each morning, breathing in the aroma of my coffee, sharing the sunrise and Mumford and Sons on the radio. Yet, in over 1,000 daily commutes, she didn’t have a name.

Living in Alberta, she has escorted me on countless prairie drives. We have raced the train to Saskatchewan, where I have shared birthday celebrations and Christmas concerts with my nieces and nephew. We have meandered hilly grasslands to spend quiet weekends in my mother’s rural community. She carried me home to Calgary to be with loved ones after my father suddenly passed away. She connects me to my family and closest friends, yet through all this, did not have a name.

We have shared a quiet twenty minutes with a good book when we were too early for work; we have shared ten minutes with that same book while waiting for the train to pass.

We have watched sunsets together, spotted the Northern Lights, driven under canopies of hoar frosted tree branches, and golden autumn leaves.

And still no name.

We have had many adventures together, too. She has driven clear across the city through November slush with a mattress on her head. She cuts through snow drifts as if they were butter. One all-night drive to Jasper found four people and four people’s worth of camping gear filling every inch of her trunk and passenger cavities.

Then there was the all-nighter across the border. In 2009, we ventured a long weekend road trip to Seattle for the first time. The sights of this artistic urban centre, the lure of the outlet mall, and the need for one last summer adventure took two friends and I through the starry night to get there on the Labour Day long weekend.

We let the full moon guide us down through British Columbia. My Honda performed beautifully on what was her first big road trip. She parked flawlessly in the tight spaces of Downtown Seattle on a Saturday afternoon, traversed the Washington Interstate system like a native resident, and did not complain as we loaded the car carrier on her roof with all of our shopping treasures.

The Coquihalla highway, granted, was a bit challenging. On a downward slope, it was all I could do to keep her from barreling along at over 120km/h. Upwards, however, was another story. She climbed as best she could, loaded down with clothes, shoes, and home storage. Still, it was a challenge to keep her above 80-90km/h. Somewhere around the 3^rd or 4^th incline, my friend riding shotgun patted her dashboard to encourage her. “Come on, little aubergine; you can do it!”

“Aubergine?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s French for ‘eggplant.’”

Aubergine.

It fit.

Her name was Aubergine.

I was so glad to finally learn her name. We have shared many an adventure together since that trip. As she ages, I know it’s only a matter of time before she goes to that place where old cars go. She has started to complain in the cold weather. She can’t see as well as she used to. She's had two knee replacements.* She has travelled far and she has travelled well.

I have already started researching my new car. I know pretty much exactly what I want. It's a bit exciting--I am already in anticipation of the newness, the freshness, the technologically-up-to-dateness. ...And then I find myself leaving work, spying Aubergine parked by herself in the distance, and all I see is her. I see the summer tires that I just put on, and I wonder if it's like trading boots for flip-flops to her. I see the very first dent someone left in her driver-side passenger door--wow, that was a long time ago. I see her dusty bumper, evidence of our spring streets that haven't been swept yet; Aubergine, you need a bath. And through the layer of dust, I can also see her purple frame, shimmering a bit in the sunlight.

Please tell me I’m not the only one for whom cars become like another member of the family. We’ve shared so much together—and while I am excited for new adventures with a new travelling companion, I look at Aubergine and think, not quite yet. We still have much music and morning coffees to share. We still have a lot of work to get to here in the city. We still have a couple of prairie road trips we need to take together. I am not ready to make miles with a new friend; creaks and dents and cracks aside, I feel that I still have quite a few miles left to finish with the friend I've got.

"Come on, little Aubergine; you can do it."







* Read: new ball joints