Behold, the Minivan

For those of you that still follow this blog, my great silence has been due to my official hiring by the firm where I have been temping since July. Working hard and away from home, I have little time to write, but at least I am now the happy copyeditor for a wonderful company whose consistent paychecks have allowed me to replace my ancient SUV.

I had hoped the SUV would last till next summer. My mechanic shook his head and said that only another $1000 would guarantee an attempt at that.  "Well," I asked hopefully, "maybe another thousand miles without those repairs?" He grimaced. That week was the last time I drove it to work, the shaking and rattling and whining so severe I thought it would break down on the highway. By the weekend, I had succumbed to the need to finally replace the automobile that I had acquired a few months after my daughter's birth, and that had carried home my newborn son from the hospital. We have been everywhere and everything, that SUV and me: married, single, married again, residents in three states, and journeys across half the country. There were 164,000 hard-earned miles and eleven years in that vehicle, which had been a symbol of consistency, sameness despite change, a familiar comfort in new places.

It had also grown to be awfully inconvenient, however. At a car dealership that weekend, I reluctantly explored what I knew would be the best for a family that travels, a family with a large dog, a family with guests, a family of growing young people. I slinked past a row of shiny BMWs, Saabs, and Lexuses-- pretty little sedans glistening like slices of meringued pie in the cool afternoon. But those things aren't practical, and I came home with the whole wheat loaf of vehicles instead.

Behold, the minivan.

Actually, the minivan has been very nice. It has been like driving my living room, and the best part of the whole thing is that my kids cannot touch each other in the back seat. The mid row is two captain's chairs, where Tiny takes up his seat, and the third row is a bench that my daughter hogs. No one fights anymore about who poked whom. I even had a DVD player installed for those road trips we take. This past weekend on our holiday roadtrip, I smiled as my husband dropped the thermostat on his side of the car to the upper 60s while I kept my side of the car on "toast." As far as minivans go, it isn't as granny panty as I thought it would be. The front end of my mini is rather chic-ly designed, and the remote operated easy-access sliding doors are about as mechanically sexy as a mommy-mobile could be.

Truthfully, I panicked when I sold my old SUV to the dealership that weekend. My daughter stood beside me and told me not to cry about it. I didn't know what was worse--saying good-bye to my old tried-and-true or having to embrace the unglamorous genre of family vehicles. But we're doing ok here, the Catichemobile and me. Practicality won out, and for that my entire family is thankful. Even the dog... and me.

True Love and Longevity: My Old Truck (Don't Tell Her She's Ugly!)

I drive a ten year old SUV that has seen better days, but just keeps on going. Lately, I joke that no one steals it because it looks so bad, a real bonus because I don’t have a garage where I live. We all park on the street.


The vehicle has one crooked, partially broken headlight that fills with water when it rains. The emblem on the front grill is missing, and the paint is chipped off the nose of the hood. The front bumper looks like it took a good chain whipping. It was an accident due to He Who Must Not Be Named, but it never got fixed. Part of the side rear bumper guard sags away from the body of the car and periodically I kick it back in place—damage caused again by He Who when he backed into the babysitter’s car years ago. Recently, driving through city streets, I hit a paint puddle from someone’s lost gallons of latex. I had hoped the paint was dry. It wasn’t. At least the paint was the same color as the body of my vehicle and only the bumper guards, tires, runners, and flashing bear the splatters. Did I mention the missing hub cap? And the finish stained with age, salt, and dirt that cannot be power-washed off?

The radio display has been broken for years, and the windshield wiper fluid container is cracked and won’t contain fluid anymore. The rear wiper only works when it feels like it. The carpet, which I vacuum routinely, is wearing to the mat and the console between the front seats is showing breaks and peels on the vinyl. There is a mysterious stain (lemonade?) on the interior ceiling, and if a kid nudges the rear radio controls at all, the system will change stations or switch to CD. My tank has kinks, but it sputters, hums, groans forward, and we arrive intact. I maintain it as best I can, but I feel a big repair coming, especially after this last trip. Sitting in the SUV yesterday, I cranked the engine and listened to its idle and felt for vibrations that should not be there.

“Baby, you can look ugly, but please don’t run ugly,” I pleaded. Right now I cannot afford to replace this vehicle. Even if I could though, I would be procrastinating. I have had it for so long and through so much, that I will be terribly sad to see it go.

The SUV survived the infancy and youth of one child, and now the birth and toddlerhood of another. We have driven across the country in it--as north as Wisconsin, as south as Louisiana, from Tennessee to South Carolina, through the Midwest, and the entire South. Together we have survived floods, snowstorms, multiple moves, a painful divorce, and incredibly abusive loads of goods from Home Depot. When I could not afford an outing, I could afford a ride through the country in air conditioned comfort with music controlled by pressing buttons on the steering wheel. I drove it to lull babies to sleep, to calm my nerves, to serve as a private dining hall, and often to sit prayerfully between errands or adventures. These days, my SUV regularly chauffeurs my children back and forth across two or three states. I watch the miles increase, I listen to the truck sputter, hum, then groan forward, again and again, and I cross my fingers for luck. It is still on occasion my temple or refuge, but now that I live in a true pedestrian city, I take advantage of walking. My old truck probably appreciates the rest.

At the bookstore today, I parked next to a sparkling black Yukon with great tire tread. My battered SUV heaved an audible sigh and did its best to stand squarely next to it. I looked back, frowned at the sight of my own tires and thought maybe it is time to put this old tank to rest. But I keep saying what I said last year and the year before.

“Ten thousand more miles, baby. Please. Just ten thousand more.”