Requiem for a Car
My 2002 Toyota RAV 4 in front of the Grimes County Courthouse.
When my youngest daughter was less than a year old, she and I were hit by an unlicensed driver who ran a red light. The gentleman in question apparently already had a warrant out for his arrest for doing the exact same thing so it seems this was a habit of his. That said, my daughter and I were incredibly lucky: had we been a little further into the intersection we would have no doubt both been seriously injured given the speed of the other vehicle. Still, the damage was enough that the insurance adjuster determined my Toyota was "totaled" and so arrangements were made to have it taken away.
Receiving official news of my car's demise stirred within me an unexpected cascade of sorrow. The financial implications of the situation were unfortunate - although the car was old, we were hoping to get a few more years out of it - but somehow being given word of its passing affected me emotionally as well.
I am not usually sentimental about such things. I never anthropomorphized the car or gave it a name beyond "The Toyota" but I clearly had developed a close attachment to the vehicle. It was the first car I truly bought myself rather than inheriting a relative's hand-me-down. I researched my options thoroughly and invested in a “pre-owned” Toyota RAV4 I concluded would be small enough to get me good gas milage but big enough to move my stuff around.
And for a decade it did just that.
The car was a perfect fit for where I was in my life and it continued to be a great car even as it passed 191,000 miles. As I cleaned out its contents ahead of turning it over to a salvage company, I was reminded of all the places we had been together. It drove me to New Jersey for grad school and it brought me back to Texas to the woman who would become my wife. After we were married it moved us into our first apartment and later it moved us into our first home. It drove me out to research all of my courthouses and it took my growing family down to the coast for long weekend vacations. It was the first vehicle both our daughters ever traveled in as it took them both back home from the hospital where they were born. It drove me to meet my first clients when I started my own office and at the end of every day it drove me home.
Its windshield was the frame for over ten years of my life. No doubt it is the memories that stir the emotions in me more than the loss of the steel and glass and upholstery. It is (or rather, it was) a machine and so it does not have a soul. But it provided momentary shelter for those souls traveling on the journey of life and delivered them safely a little bit further down the road.
Three days prior to the accident, I drove the Toyota to Abilene to set up an exhibition of some of my courthouse work. Although I did not know it at the time, it would be our last road trip together. I left very early as I needed to photograph the Bosque County Courthouse right before sunrise. As I made my way down Highway 6 toward Meridian, the setting full moon inched closer to the horizon until for a brief moment it sat like a glowing dome at the end of the road before me. It was a perfect alignment of Moon, road, car and driver, and it was beautiful.
It was a fitting way to send off a great machine. It was a perfect end to a remarkable ride.
