Post by Honeylioness on Oct 11, 2010 15:09:52 GMT -5
Monday, October 11, 2010
Friday I said good-bye to Henry. I had been dreading this day but here it was. As I watched him drive out of the parking lot towards his new life I had an almost overwhelming urge to run after him and yell "Wait!! I changed my mind ... please ... come back!!"
Instead I just stood there in the warm early autumn sunlight and sobbed. Silver streams flowing down both cheeks as I felt a gut clenching combination of abandonment, loss, doubt and almost overwhelming grief.
We had been together almost 18 years - and aside from my family this had been the longest relationship I have ever had. I don't remember the exact date we met but I do remember it was sunny and he first caught my eye because of his good looks and clean lines. He had all the qualifications I had been searching for over the months prior and so I took him home. From the beginning it felt as though he had been made just for me. There was no awkward "getting to know you period" - just an instant comfort I felt each time I climbed up into the cab.
Yes, I said cab - see, Henry was ... is ... a 1992 Ford Ranger XLT pickup truck I purchased in 1993. He had been purchased new and returned six months later when his first owner realized he could not afford a fourth car payment on top of his other bills. The dealership I had purchased two cars from previously knew I was in the market for a truck, what makes/models I would consider and gave me a call. At the time I paid what I considered an OUTRAGEOUS amount of money - $10,000 financed over five years.
But he was MINE!
We went everywhere together from vacations to helping friends move. Going to work, retreats and just driving for the sake of driving. He was regularly washed, cleaned and vacuumed. He was there through several apartments, friendships, boyfriends and was loaded into the moving van that carried all my worldly goods cross country when I came back to Massachusetts in 1997.
Through the trauma of being fired to the anxiety of buying my townhouse he was there. He got me safely to and from Northern Vermont for years, navigated flooded roads easily to get me safely home and handled snow like a champ. He hauled plants, sod, groceries, luggage, Christmas trees and my newly purchased piano with equal ease.
Along the way there were dings and dents acquired, a minor fender bender once. And this past Spring a friend's neighbor backed into the left side of the bed. Rust developed along the rims of the wheel wells and along the seams of the tailgate - but still he kept going.
Yes there were times when I just wanted to walk away and not deal with him anymore - like when the oil pump blew, or the timing belt snapped at 01:00 am on the Interstate, or he needed new tires - but I held on. Even when co-workers made disparaging comments about his appearance and age, though they quickly shut up when told I could go 4-5 WEEKS on a full tank of gas and never had to take out a loan to pay my annual registration or excise taxes (which are based on vehicle value).
I liked being the somewhat eccentric woman with the old truck. Henry made me feel unique and free - spontaneous and creative - a bit bohemian and unconventional in the midst of a life that all too often feels boring and constrained by routine and duty. I had thought I would be that little old lady in her 70s or 80s scooting around town in her vintage truck that the local news would run a human interest piece on. I used to fantasize about winning the lottery and getting Henry a complete overhaul including body work in lieu of getting a newer truck.
But life has a way of throwing us curve balls. And the first one that forced me to think about a different vehicle was agreeing to host not one, but TWO, girls this year. Henry's jump-seats in the extended cab are fine for short jaunts if you have short legs - but for more than three people it is really tight. And if there is luggage or supplies you best hope it doesn't rain on them in the bed of the truck. So I knew it wasn't practical for this situation. But knowing and feeling are two very different things.
All during the research, reading and test driving period I had a nagging sense of guilt - as though I was "cheating" on Henry. Looking at younger models with prettier bodies and fancier dashboards. And each time I would come from a test drive or after scrolling through all sorts of listings on the Internet - there he was. Patient and steady and willing to jump to life at the turn of a key.
His future came up during discussions with a couple of dealers who would give him a scornful sneer before asking if I would be using "it" as a trade in? Offering me a scant $200-$300 which I knew meant they would be selling him for scrap at their earliest opportunity. Or do I try and sell him to a young man looking for a fixer-upper? Even though Massachusetts Lemon Laws make such a prospect rather daunting for a private owner.
Finally I learned about another alternative - donation. Not to one of the charities I had heard about through radio advertising - but to a local Technical High School where they teach kids job skills such as cooking, heating/cooling repair and automotive work. And rather than receiving a meager amount for scrap value I can deduct the full Kelly Blue book value off my taxes as a donation.
It seemed like the best alternative I had. Keeping two vehicles just did not work out financially for me right now - double the insurance, twice the registration and licensing fees and I have only one parking space at the complex. Yes - on paper and logically it was ... is ... the best alternative. Though there was that small voice in the back of my head asking why I could not have taken the gift from my parents and used it to refurbish Henry instead of replacing him.
My mind knew that last scenario would have only caused chaos and rampaging from certain individuals - and I usually choose to avoid confrontation even when it goes against my gut instinct and feelings. So I tried to convince myself that Henry would be serving a greater purpose as a teaching tool. He would have kids swarming over him repairing and re-building him from the inside out. Dents would be fixed and panels made to look like new again. Systems would get such a going over as he had never seen before ... yes, it would be fine.
Then the man from the school came by to collect him. And as I stood there softly stroking his hood one last time the man, in an effort to reassure me I think, mentioned how the students would tear down systems and body panels and put them back together again over and over until the screws and holes were too worn to be of any further use. BUT Henry would be teaching these kids a skill.
I could feel my heart drop to my stomach as I heard these blunt words and tried to block out the image of my darling being cannibalized by clumsy children with power tools. Would they understand this was not just a beat up old truck? This was my friend, my trusty steed and I was feeling as though I was preparing to put him down before his time. It honestly felt as though I was leading him to slaughter as it were – and for no other reason than he had gotten old and a bit cranky, and would need more work and pampering in the years to come.
Which is how I found myself watching through wet eyes as his tail lights disappeared from view. Never again would I see his black shape waiting for me on a cold winter morning as I headed off to work. No more Costco runs or berry picking. I have a new Ford now – a pretty golden Escape that the girls have named “Henrietta”. She is most definitely a girl whereas Henry was a boy from day one.
Yes, it was the practical thing to do. And yes, I got a good deal. But I can’t help but feel that I have lost something of myself in the process. A way of seeing myself and my relationship to the world. No longer a creative free spirit thumbing her nose gently at those around her who blindly follow convention and trends. I feel as though I have become one of “them” – the faceless multitudes in their prosaic safe SUVs driving to the grocery store or school event – kids and their accoutrements in tow. No longer an artist or a woman comfortable in her own self expression – but rather a staid suburban “mom” in practical shoes.
So was I really crying about losing Henry …… or myself?
Friday I said good-bye to Henry. I had been dreading this day but here it was. As I watched him drive out of the parking lot towards his new life I had an almost overwhelming urge to run after him and yell "Wait!! I changed my mind ... please ... come back!!"
Instead I just stood there in the warm early autumn sunlight and sobbed. Silver streams flowing down both cheeks as I felt a gut clenching combination of abandonment, loss, doubt and almost overwhelming grief.
We had been together almost 18 years - and aside from my family this had been the longest relationship I have ever had. I don't remember the exact date we met but I do remember it was sunny and he first caught my eye because of his good looks and clean lines. He had all the qualifications I had been searching for over the months prior and so I took him home. From the beginning it felt as though he had been made just for me. There was no awkward "getting to know you period" - just an instant comfort I felt each time I climbed up into the cab.
Yes, I said cab - see, Henry was ... is ... a 1992 Ford Ranger XLT pickup truck I purchased in 1993. He had been purchased new and returned six months later when his first owner realized he could not afford a fourth car payment on top of his other bills. The dealership I had purchased two cars from previously knew I was in the market for a truck, what makes/models I would consider and gave me a call. At the time I paid what I considered an OUTRAGEOUS amount of money - $10,000 financed over five years.
But he was MINE!
We went everywhere together from vacations to helping friends move. Going to work, retreats and just driving for the sake of driving. He was regularly washed, cleaned and vacuumed. He was there through several apartments, friendships, boyfriends and was loaded into the moving van that carried all my worldly goods cross country when I came back to Massachusetts in 1997.
Through the trauma of being fired to the anxiety of buying my townhouse he was there. He got me safely to and from Northern Vermont for years, navigated flooded roads easily to get me safely home and handled snow like a champ. He hauled plants, sod, groceries, luggage, Christmas trees and my newly purchased piano with equal ease.
Along the way there were dings and dents acquired, a minor fender bender once. And this past Spring a friend's neighbor backed into the left side of the bed. Rust developed along the rims of the wheel wells and along the seams of the tailgate - but still he kept going.
Yes there were times when I just wanted to walk away and not deal with him anymore - like when the oil pump blew, or the timing belt snapped at 01:00 am on the Interstate, or he needed new tires - but I held on. Even when co-workers made disparaging comments about his appearance and age, though they quickly shut up when told I could go 4-5 WEEKS on a full tank of gas and never had to take out a loan to pay my annual registration or excise taxes (which are based on vehicle value).
I liked being the somewhat eccentric woman with the old truck. Henry made me feel unique and free - spontaneous and creative - a bit bohemian and unconventional in the midst of a life that all too often feels boring and constrained by routine and duty. I had thought I would be that little old lady in her 70s or 80s scooting around town in her vintage truck that the local news would run a human interest piece on. I used to fantasize about winning the lottery and getting Henry a complete overhaul including body work in lieu of getting a newer truck.
But life has a way of throwing us curve balls. And the first one that forced me to think about a different vehicle was agreeing to host not one, but TWO, girls this year. Henry's jump-seats in the extended cab are fine for short jaunts if you have short legs - but for more than three people it is really tight. And if there is luggage or supplies you best hope it doesn't rain on them in the bed of the truck. So I knew it wasn't practical for this situation. But knowing and feeling are two very different things.
All during the research, reading and test driving period I had a nagging sense of guilt - as though I was "cheating" on Henry. Looking at younger models with prettier bodies and fancier dashboards. And each time I would come from a test drive or after scrolling through all sorts of listings on the Internet - there he was. Patient and steady and willing to jump to life at the turn of a key.
His future came up during discussions with a couple of dealers who would give him a scornful sneer before asking if I would be using "it" as a trade in? Offering me a scant $200-$300 which I knew meant they would be selling him for scrap at their earliest opportunity. Or do I try and sell him to a young man looking for a fixer-upper? Even though Massachusetts Lemon Laws make such a prospect rather daunting for a private owner.
Finally I learned about another alternative - donation. Not to one of the charities I had heard about through radio advertising - but to a local Technical High School where they teach kids job skills such as cooking, heating/cooling repair and automotive work. And rather than receiving a meager amount for scrap value I can deduct the full Kelly Blue book value off my taxes as a donation.
It seemed like the best alternative I had. Keeping two vehicles just did not work out financially for me right now - double the insurance, twice the registration and licensing fees and I have only one parking space at the complex. Yes - on paper and logically it was ... is ... the best alternative. Though there was that small voice in the back of my head asking why I could not have taken the gift from my parents and used it to refurbish Henry instead of replacing him.
My mind knew that last scenario would have only caused chaos and rampaging from certain individuals - and I usually choose to avoid confrontation even when it goes against my gut instinct and feelings. So I tried to convince myself that Henry would be serving a greater purpose as a teaching tool. He would have kids swarming over him repairing and re-building him from the inside out. Dents would be fixed and panels made to look like new again. Systems would get such a going over as he had never seen before ... yes, it would be fine.
Then the man from the school came by to collect him. And as I stood there softly stroking his hood one last time the man, in an effort to reassure me I think, mentioned how the students would tear down systems and body panels and put them back together again over and over until the screws and holes were too worn to be of any further use. BUT Henry would be teaching these kids a skill.
I could feel my heart drop to my stomach as I heard these blunt words and tried to block out the image of my darling being cannibalized by clumsy children with power tools. Would they understand this was not just a beat up old truck? This was my friend, my trusty steed and I was feeling as though I was preparing to put him down before his time. It honestly felt as though I was leading him to slaughter as it were – and for no other reason than he had gotten old and a bit cranky, and would need more work and pampering in the years to come.
Which is how I found myself watching through wet eyes as his tail lights disappeared from view. Never again would I see his black shape waiting for me on a cold winter morning as I headed off to work. No more Costco runs or berry picking. I have a new Ford now – a pretty golden Escape that the girls have named “Henrietta”. She is most definitely a girl whereas Henry was a boy from day one.
Yes, it was the practical thing to do. And yes, I got a good deal. But I can’t help but feel that I have lost something of myself in the process. A way of seeing myself and my relationship to the world. No longer a creative free spirit thumbing her nose gently at those around her who blindly follow convention and trends. I feel as though I have become one of “them” – the faceless multitudes in their prosaic safe SUVs driving to the grocery store or school event – kids and their accoutrements in tow. No longer an artist or a woman comfortable in her own self expression – but rather a staid suburban “mom” in practical shoes.
So was I really crying about losing Henry …… or myself?