In Memoriam: Elegy to an Automobile

 [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).

           

Betsy was not flashy or glamorous, and yes, she showed her age despite a new wax job and new tires. But her dents were signs of character; her scratches were ribbons of valor.

            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!

Grey Hair at Eighteen

I didn’t date much in high school, but I remember one date that was very memorable. It was a date I had in 1961 when I was a junior and I went to the senior prom at Bountiful High School. My date, Bill was a very intelligent guy from a wealthy family who was planning on going to medical school. He had been accepted at a prestigious college back east. We had known each other for quite a while through Honor Societies, United Nations and other activities and he had asked me to go with him to his senior prom.

“Don’t worry, Beth, I’ll get you home in time,” Bill laughed.

“I just don’t want my parents to worry,” I said. I was having a good time, but I always worried about everything.

“Relax,” Bill said. “No one has started leaving yet. Besides, this is my senior prom. Let’s enjoy it.”

“I guess you’re right. It is still early.”

“Don’t forget, the new car my folks gave me for graduation will make it to the moon and back in a flash, so it’ll take only a second to get home.”

Persuaded by the soft lights, Bill’s laughter, and the dancing, I pushed the nibbling worry further back among the cobwebs. This was the prom, I rationalized; my parents wouldn’t expect me to come home until later.

It was 12:15 a.m. when we finally left the dance and raced our friends to Salt Lake City to eat at the Pancake House. Bill’s car was swifter than the rest so no one was at there when we arrived. Bill, too impatient to wait there, started searching for them. As it became later, and we couldn’t find them, he decided to eat without them. Since by now, the Pancake House was closed, we headed toward the airport.

Once away from the glare and noise of the city, and onto the still darkness of the road, my worry again crept to the surface. The excitement of the evening was beginning to wilt, and I thought of how my parents would start worrying if we didn’t get home soon. But I took a deep breath, looked over at Bill—and thought, he’ll get me home in time.

My worry increased as the road stretched more and more endlessly ahead of us and we saw no sign of the airport. Finally I ventured a remark.

“Are you sure we’re on the right road? I don’t see any sign of the airport.”

“Yes, we’re going due west, aren’t we? There’s only one road going that way—the one to the airport.”

“But it has never taken this long to get out to the airport. It’s getting pretty late, too.”

Bill clutched the wheel more tightly and floored the engine as though speed would drive away my worry. I searched the empty roadside anxiously for a sign of some sort to tell us where we were headed. As the miles swept by, a small line of fear began to crease Bill’s face, and my hands grew clammy as I thought of my parents worrying at home. Just as we were about to give up, we saw a small sign ahead. Bill slowed the car as we drew nearer. My heart turned over with despair as I read, “Bingham, 5 miles.”

“Well, anyway, we weren’t too far off; we are heading West, or Southwest.” I feebly tried to joke, hoping to laugh away my growing fear. In my mind’s eye, I saw my mother apprehensively pacing the floor, wondering why I wasn’t home.

Finally, after what seemed to be hours of anguish, we drove into the airport parking lot; my watch read 2:33. I tried to smile as I ordered sandwiches, the quickest prepared food on the menu, while Bill went to phone my parents to tell them we’d be getting home later than we’d planned. I relaxed a little, thinking that at least they wouldn’t worry any longer. But one look at Bill’s face as he returned told me I was wrong.

“Your line’s busy,” he told me. “I couldn’t talk to your folks.” My mind thought immediately of them frantically calling all over, trying to find out why I wasn’t home. The food, as I tried to force it down, tasted like dry paper. If only we’d get home, I kept thinking.

“Let’s go on Redwood Road,” Bill said. “It may be more isolated, but it will get you home in ten minutes.” I relaxed again as the car raced along the darkened road. I wouldn’t be much longer until I’d be home.

“Heck! Look at that temperature!” Bill exclaimed as he jerked on the brake. I looked, and my heart stopped as it glared a bright red at me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked timidly, scared by this new obstacle and also by the look on Bill’s face.

“I don’t know, but the oil’s dry, too.” We crawled along for a while, but neither the oil, nor the temperature got any better. Suddenly the speedometer jumped.

“If it doesn’t improve going slowly, I might as well go faster so we won’t be so far out here in no man’s land when it gives out,” he explained.

I sat silently hoping we’d make it to civilization before the engine stopped. Now I was worrying, not only about what my parents were thinking, but also about whether I’d ever get home. No one would think to look for us out of Redwood Road.

Suddenly all hopes were dashed as the engine sputtered and stopped. I held my breath as the car came to a halt. As Bill examined the engine, I sat inside and fought back the tears. I realized that, now, my parents had a valid right to worry about me.

As I thanked the person who’d picked us up and taken me home, I steeled myself for the ordeal ahead. The customary porch light showed my watch that it was 4:40 a.m. I could see only one of our cars; either the other was in the garage or my parents were out looking for me.

“I’m terribly sorry, Beth,” Bill broke into my train of thought. “Do you want me to go in and try to explain to your parents?”

“No, you’d better go get someone to tow your car and see if there’s anything they can do about fixing it.”

“Well, I’m awfully sorry about everything.”

I opened the door and crept into the house; to my shock no one was up. They were not pacing the floor waiting for me. Even if they had gone to bed, they would never have gone to sleep before they knew I was safely home. But this time they had! I couldn’t believe it.

I tiptoed in to say “good night” and the noise awoke my mother slightly.

“What time is it?” she mumbled sleepily.

“I don’t know,” I lied. The next morning was early enough to tell her the story.

“We went to sleep and didn’t worry,” she muttered, “cause we knew you’d be okay with Bill, and you are always so responsible.”

Well, I thought heading for my own room, it’s a relief to know they didn’t worry.