[This was written years ago when we were young and laughed at life]
Betsy died violently in a raging inferno of fire. At her death, she was
in the prime of her life, with another hundred thousand miles or more left in
her. Betsy was far more than just a car; Betsy was a member of our family.
To some people
(specifically my husband), Betsy didn't look that elegant. She was just a
small, brown, Datsun station wagon, but she fit my image. She was short, stocky
and very square, but then I am too. She projected an image of solid, suburban
matron-liness, but then so do I! She wasn't fast or showy, but she was steady
and persistent—just like me!
It took me 14 years, four kids and a Cub Scout den to convince my husband that I needed a car like Betsy--a station wagon. He thought it might tarnish his image as a dashing, young aviator to be seen in something so conservative. But after my husband bought a sporty Toyota Celica, (that couldn't hold the whole family, let alone our dog) he ran out of excuses and allowed me to adopt Betsy. He pretended that she was just visiting us!
Betsy
was just what I wanted and I loved her dearly. She was good‑natured and
dependable. She awakened quickly and easily every morning no matter how cold
the weather or how early the hour; she was never cranky or obstinate. She never
stranded me or quit unexpectedly, and she never
ever ran out of gas for me. (She ran out of gas occasionally for my
husband, when he had to drive her, but that was only because he didn't
like her and she knew it).
There was the gouge in
the upholstery where Marc had tried to attack Athena and missed. There was the
sagging spring in the back seat where my oldest son Marlowe always sat before
he got his driver's license. (His name was written in indelible ink on the back
of the seat, in case someone didn't realize that was his designated seat!) There
was the rubbed spot from the infant car seat and there was the light cover that
always fell off and hit you on the head if you slammed the door.
But Betsy's
imperfections only made her dearer to us. She maneuvered so nicely on rainy
roads and took curves so sweetly. She didn't have a tiger in her tank, and yes,
you had to encourage her when she was trying to pass another car, or when
ascending a steep hill. But that was only to prevent us from missing the
breath-taking scenery around us. She was just like the little train in
children's story-books. We chanted "I think she can! I think she
can!" all the way up the hill and cheer her all the way down! She always
pulled through, somehow, but that may have been due to all our prayers in her
behalf.
Betsy drove us safely
through blizzards in Nebraska; she joyfully took us home for Christmas and to
family reunions. She scaled Mauna Kea's heights with aplomb and loved nothing
better than running down to the beach in Hawaii. Most of all Betsy loved the
Texas freeways with their peaceful rolling hills, and open spaces, yet she
gladly gave them up for the two‑lane country roads of rural Alabama. Betsy was
a real trouper!
How do you tell your
husband that your car has been incinerated? I tried, in vain, to think of a way
to break the news to him gently.
"Sweetheart, I
fried our car."
"Which
do you want me to buy this week, a new car or a used car?"
"You know how you
never really cared for Betsy? Well, you don't have her to kick around any
more."
Finally I chickened out! I left a message for him to meet
me at the paint shop where Betsy had been getting a new paint job when the shop
burned down cremating Betsy. I picked armfuls of wild flowers, and awaited his
arrival. When he pulled up in a cloud of dust and a squeal of wheels, I was throwing
the flowers on Betsy's funeral pyre and mournfully singing her praises. I don't
care what my husband thought (or said); Betsy was a real lady and I'm glad she
went out in a blaze of glory!
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