I have a new car and she has a name

I’ve been thinking lately about a children’s story I used to read to the kiddos back in the teaching days, Cynthia Rylant’s The Old Woman Who Named Things. 

The titular character, whimsically bespectacled and charmingly decked out in cowboy boots, regularly bestows human names upon her inanimate possessions, like her chair, bed, car. Then one day a waggy-tailed stray pup cutes his way into her life. She cares for him, plays with him, but refuses to name him. 

You see, though quite spry, she’s a very OLD old lady, and as such has outlived all her friends and loved ones. Naming something made of wood, fabric, metal is one thing. It’s not like your favorite chair is going to keel over and leave you any time soon. But naming a living, breathing doggy? Yikes. That means being strong enough to survive if he passes before you do. 

As the story continues, their life together is all unicorns and rainbows until one day the no-named little guy goes missing. Old lady searches up and down, out of her mind with worry. When she finally finds him, it dawns on her that she adores this sweet little pup and so, even though she knows she could one day lose him, she fully lets him enter her heart, and she names him. It’s a heartwarming tale with a life lesson that will soften even the most jaded adult. Read it even if you don't care about what she names him. 

A few weeks ago, my trusty steed, a geriatric, high miles Honda CR-V that got me to and fro for fourteen years, finally gave up the fight. Brakes, calipers, various hoses, axles, almost in one fell swoop cried uncle. Given that the cost of repairs amounted to three times the vehicle’s worth, seemed like a good time to let my friend fade quietly into that good night, so I traded her in. She’s off to become someone else’s spare parts. Though she survived a lot longer than she should have, it was tough saying good-bye. 

Though I never named her -- yes, I considered my car a she, we had some times together. In addition to all the lengthy trips from Iowa to Massachusetts and back these last couple of years, we hit DC a half dozen times, drove every New England state, and visited lots of others too. 

Because I tend to hold on to my vehicles for a long time, I knew when I bought her that she would be the car that would literally drive me to retirement. But before that, she transported me for close to 1,800 days to and from school at breakneck speeds. The girl had giddy-up. Chauffeured me to dozens of races. Was a marathon medal, Gatorade, Gu, mylar blanket, empty water bottle, running shoes repository, and eventually got her backside plastered in hard-won race stickers. Always held at least two snow and ice brushes year-round -- because in New England, even in spring and early fall, the weather can change in a heartbeat, along with sand, kitty litter, extra change, a coat or two. 

As with all the other cars I’ve bought over the years, my dad accompanied me to the dealer for this one. He was convinced that without him along for the purchasing ride, I’d be cheated. Once I’d settle on a car, he’d haggle with the salesman. I never left with a lower bill, but my father would always get me freebies. Floor mats were his specialty. I always had free floor mats, courtesy of my dad. 

Back in 2012, the last time I went car shopping, my dad and I visited three dealers in total. Took a lot of test drives together and shared a lot of thoughts on how peculiar some sales folks could be. On all subjects, including cars and the people who sold them, my dad was a terrific sounding board. I bought a great, reliable car and of course loved my floor mats. 

As my parents got older and their health issues gradually took over all our lives, my Honda became one of the only constants. We made lots of trips to emergency rooms, hospitals, nursing homes. We followed ambulances and in at least one instance my Honda acted like an ambulance. 

There were weeks at a time when life looked like this: leave work, drive to one hospital to visit one of them, then drive to another hospital to visit the other, then go to their house to retrieve something each of them needed, then drive back to each hospital. 

Though lots of things were falling apart, I never once had to worry about my transportation. Through rainstorms, blizzards, and killer New England heat and humidity, some of the happiest and some of the most devastating times of my life, my Honda never let me down. 

When I drive distances, I always refill the gas tank when it hits the halfway mark. During normal, everyday driving times, I always keep the tank at least a quarter filled. But during those dark days, lots of things fell by the wayside. 

One day, after work, checking on my dad at home, and visiting my mother twice, I exited the hospital parking garage -  no fee because the attendant was a former student and wouldn’t take my money. 

I remember the front windshield was foggy. It was a wet fall day, and as always, the defroster was a little on the slow side. While idling and waiting for traffic to pass and the glass to clear, I glanced at the dash and nearly had a heart attack when I saw one mile’s worth of gas left. One. 

Cue a massive panic attack. The nearest gas station was at least a mile away maybe more and everyone knows you can’t count on anything when a readout is that low.  I put the car in drive, eased out onto the road, and coasted, one eye glued to the dash, all the way to the gas station, which thankfully was downhill. With the readout still saying one mile of gas left, I was able to pull up and refill without a problem. That’s a trusty vehicle. 

When it came time to say good-bye to my Honda, I couldn’t help thinking back to all these times. And for some reason the Rylant old lady story, which I haven't read or thought about in at least a decade started running through my brain. Maybe because I’m closer to old lady status these days than young ingenue?  A little regret started worming into my brain too.  My Honda had gotten me through hell and back and then some. She had pronouns – she and her, but I’d never given her a name. I felt bad about that. I know that’s silly. 

My new car arrived yesterday but when I went to pick it up at the appointed time,  I learned there’d be a little wait. Because I’d already turned in my rental and was already at the dealership -- located along a busy route with nothing nearby, when I learned that the car wasn’t ready, I was pretty much trapped. 

At first, I was okay. I could handle the half hour or so they’d said I’d need to wait. I scrolled through my phone, then walked a few laps around the dealership so I could keep my August move everyday streak intact, then played on my phone again. The half hour turned into one, two hours, then three. 

Sweaty, thirsty, and totally over everything, I asked to speak to the manager. I was not happy, but I was impressed by the guy’s courage. Given the tone of my voice, I didn’t even want to be around me. He kindly listened to my complaints, then apologized, and began offering me free things, which I declined, as his way of showing what he called “goodwill.” 

“I just want to be heard and I want my car,” I said. I was a bit more polite at this point. 

My car was ready twenty minutes later and as soon as I sat in the front seat, I got misty-eyed, because as an apology for the long wait time the manager had his mechanics install free floor mats. Suddenly memories of my dad who always haggled for free floor mats came flooding back. 

My new car is my favorite car color – red. Not stormy orange-red. Not cabernet. She is unapologetically, defiantly, aggressively, true race car red. Because she is going to be my constant companion the next decade or so if I’m lucky enough to hit my mid-70s, she will probably be my last vehicular fling before I go to something of a more sobering nature, more befitting a shrinking, elderly lady: smaller, lower to the ground, more economical, perhaps beige. 

My car has a name: Ruby. Makes sense, given her color. Her full name is Ruby RedSocks. Note the spelling. Redsocks is an homage to some things I hold dear. 

No matter where I live, I will always hold Massachusetts close to my heart. So Redsocks is a play on the name of that iconic Boston team that everyone thinks of when they think of my home state. There’s that. 

But the rest is my dad. The floor mats sunk it. 

As a school principal and on the golf course my dad was known region-wide for his signature look: bold color combinations – think lime green suitcoat, yellow pants, blue shirt, purple tie, red socks. Always with the red socks. Had nothing to do with the baseball team. Had everything to do with his love for red socks. 

I have a new car. And she has awesome floor mats and a great name. Over the next many weeks, months, years, Ruby and I will be chewing up some serious mileage. I’ve got places to go, sights to see, goals to reach. First, it’s time to get that 100x26.2 sticker and stick it on Ruby’s hind quarters. Next up after that, I'm thinking maybe a plus sign. But first I’ve got to earn it. 

Forward, always.