The transmission in my car quit. Kaput. It won’t go.
Most of the parts have been replaced, even the engine.
But the transmission… It. Will. Not. Go. Not anymore.
The. Car. Won’t. Go. And I’m sorry, little red car. This time, I cannot help you.
I am broke. Figuratively speaking, that is. As in financially. Though, of course, I am better off than most of the planet. But compared to a few years ago, I am broke.
So, you may ask, “Why would you want to replace the transmission in a 16 year old car, anyway?” Because this car has been with me through happy times, sad times, angry times, and traumatic times. People would see this car, and they knew it was me. This car has been branded as mine. It fits my butt. My boobs don’t hit the horn. The seatbelts are the right size. I know the ins and outs of this car. And it knows the ins and outs of me.
It’s been through snowstorms with me, been stuck in the snow with me, been stuck in a flooded street (I didn’t do that one), lost its AC, found its AC, randomly dripped water inside and out, and still, my car and I have been dedicated to each other.
When I would pull up into my mother’s driveway, she would say, “I saw your little red car in the driveway!” I can hear the sound of her voice. I wish I had it on tape.
I drove to her funeral in this car. I got married while I had this car. I got divorced while I had this car. I took beloved pets to be cremated in this car.
I got my favorite job in this car. I became disabled while I have owned this car.
In. This. Car.
In this car, I lived my life.
But I have no viable choice now. It’s time to let this car go.
So this car will go. It. Will. Go. And I will be better for it.
There is another car here I can share. It’s a much newer car. It’s healthier. And it doesn’t have the baggage that my car has. It doesn’t have the history. I can start fresh.
Logistics are not a problem. As the gecko says, I can now “save money on car insurance.” It’s smooth sailing. And eventually, I will be willing to let the car leave the driveway.
My heart aches over losing this car. Because of the memories. Because of what it represents. I have never cursed at it or called it names. It would seem like a betrayal to do that.
So what does this have to do with genealogy or family history or ancestors, you ask?
But it is my blog, and I can write what I want to.
And I’m going to miss my little red car. Miss it a lot.