My Car, My Castle

I bet that if you stopped a moment and thought back on your big moments, you’ll remember the car that got you there. Consider how many “events” a car will see in its life, first with one owner then the next, and on down until the day it’s hauled into the salvage yard, never to turn a wheel again. I know mine would sure have a lot to say.
The day I turned sixteen, I was positive there wouldn’t be a bigger or better experience than getting my driver’s license. And that was a good day, beginning with the actual acquisition of the license (I only incurred 2 penalty points, the best of the day, they said) and culminating in my first car-related grounding by my parents, for staying out too late. In the years since, of course, I’ve had several “big” moments, most of them good ones, and a few that weren’t so great.
I spent my teenage years running around the little town of Tullahoma, TN in a 1982 Datsun long-bed pickup. Arctic White with a tan vinyl bench seat and interior, it had been wrecked on the driver’s side and repaired before my dad brought it home from the used car lot. I hated it right off the bat, and began my relationship with this truck by complaining so loudly about it that my dad very nearly drove it right back to the car lot. Eventually I grew to appreciate the Datsun, though, and had some great times with it. I could write a book about all the crazy times that little truck saw with me at the helm, and perhaps those stories merit some attention another day. It was with this truck, though, that I began to appreciate a vehicle’s ability to serve as sanctuary. On many a quiet summer night in Tullahoma, I’d ride around with the windows down, soaking in the night air, enjoying my solidarity, the freedom. Even at that early stage of my life with cars, I recognized that these times were special. Behind that bus-sized wheel (it had to be with no power steering) I made many of the decisions that shaped my future. The first Gulf war was going on, and I took one such drive for hours one night, trying to decide if I should enlist in the military. I decided not to, much to the relief of my parents. I took another drive one afternoon, at well over the posted speed limits, immediately after learning that my mother would undergo surgery to have tumors removed (she’s doing just fine some 20 years later, thanks). Several other less intense but meaningful drives took place in my Datsun pickup, one of the last being when I loaded up all my stuff into it and drove the three hours to Atlanta without a trace of fear or trepidation about what lay ahead, plain and simply because I was just too naive to feel otherwise. I got rid of it soon after arriving, taking the $900 I sold it for and buying a new mountain bike. Shortly after that I hopped a plane to Utah.
In the years between then and now I’ve owned several cars (no more trucks), some of them reasonably cool, others not so much, but all of them have been havens for me at one time or another. On our honeymoon my wife Allison and I drove her 1986 Honda Accord Lxi hatchback to Las Vegas, avoiding a ticket thanks to a sympathetic trooper who was willing to overlook a busted headlight on account of our recent nuptials. 18 months later that same car faithfully and faultlessly hauled Allison, nine months pregnant and set to pop, and I through a nasty snowstorm to the hospital, returning home two days later one passenger heavier. That extra passenger prompted the purchase of a new vehicle not long after, a shiny silver Civic EX sedan, and the Accord was, sadly, retired.
The list continues in one form or another until we arrive at the car I’m presently driving, a maroon 1991 240SX. Allison has had a few different vehicles in the 7 years I’ve had this car, but I just can’t bring myself to get rid of my little red car. Oh and it’s time too. A quick look into the driver’s side wheel well will uncover a gaping rust encrusted hole, which reveals the frame rails and other mysterious car innards. Any 240SX owner will tell you, but these cars are famous for their foam rear spoiler, which actually collects and traps water at its base, ensuring at least a quarter-sized hole around the right side mounting bolt. Mine is no different. The last time it rained here in St. Augustine I had three inches of water in my spare tire well. Luckily the well has a drain plug. The previous owner apparently elected to replace the windshield himself at some point, because the top edge allows water to accumulate, and has done so for the time I’ve owned it. As a result, there’s a nice even bead of rust running the length of the windshield along the top, almost as if I’ve grown it on purpose. The rust allows water to seep in, dripping precisely onto the crotch area of both the driver and the passenger. This unique feature, along with the 240SX’s cramped interior, ranks me lowest in popularity in my carpool. But I’m not ready to give up the car just yet. I’ve caulked and re-caulked the windshield three times now, and I think maybe the last time did the trick, though now it looks like my rust bead grew a long black eyebrow. Still, the car belongs to me and I’m determined not to get rid of it until absolutely necessary. Which means probably never.
My reasons certainly don’t have anything to do with the rust, or the fact that the car now likes to threaten a complete shutdown at freeway speeds. No, it’s because this old car was with me on my worst days.
Early in the morning in July of 2004, my wife, pregnant with twin girls had what’s called a full placental abruption. She was rushed to the ER where she had an emergency C-section, and delivered our twin girls almost 13 weeks too soon. The little red car stayed in the garage that morning; we rode in the ambulance. The twins rode in a helicopter just minutes later. But the red car was called into service soon after, carrying me constantly between home, work, and the hospital, with nary a hiccup. Those were some dark days for me. Initially I didn’t know if my wife was going to make it, though within a few days we learned she would fully recover. The twins, on the other hand, were always in danger, and eventually spent 90 days in the NICU before coming home. Through it all my little red 240 was my buddy, listening as I pled and prayed and cried my way to the hospital, to work, back to the hospital, home, and then back again and again. Many times I’d sleep in the car, on a lunch break or in the hospital’s parking garage, even if for a few minutes so that I’d be able to stay awake long enough to get back home. We came through those days and those same twin girls like to ride in my 240 whenever they get the chance, which isn’t often considering that they’re three and Allison much prefers them in our Sienna, as do I.
Last September I moved my family to Florida from Utah, for a job transfer, and my little red 240SX made the trip on the back of a vehicle transporter. I had a rental car in Jacksonville, FL for three weeks while I waited for my car to arrive. The rental was nice, a brand new Ford Mustang. I drove it all over the place, including a seven hour road trip up to my brother’s house in Auburn, GA. It was a great car, infinitely more refined than my tired old Nissan. But you know what? The night before my car was scheduled to arrive I could hardly sleep, I was so excited. In the year that our family has been here in Florida we’ve seen some more difficult times, having not anticipated such a stressful and anxious transition period. Once again and through it all that rusted out, tired old 240 just keeps helping me along as best it can, the rain soaked pants notwithstanding. In fact, the humidity of Florida has seemingly put the rust on fast forward, and I’m sure that any day now my windshield will fall into my lap.
Until then, however, I think I’ll just keep caulking the windshield and then together we’ll keep finding new roads to explore and new thoughts to ponder.