ACT Blog

Struggling with sudden loss of an old, dependable friend

There was a death in my immediate family recently. It ended a close relationship of more than 11 years.

My Mercury Grand Marquis, which joined my household in 1996, died suddenly after 90, 000 miles. No warning. No sputtering. Just dead. My last time with the car was a solo drive from Philadelphia to Ventnor, N.J., down the Atlantic City Expressway. I averaged 70-plus miles per hour. No problem.

I parked the car and then later moved it to another street. Again, no problem. The ignition was OK. It went into gear. I could drive and park. There was no hint of what was to come.

Two nights later, I was with my wife, Sandy, when I went to use the car. There was no ignition. No click-click-click. Nothing. Zero.

AAA was called. A tow truck arrived, and the battery was charged. Still zero.

“It’s the starter, probably,” the tow-truck driver said. “You have to take it to a mechanic.”

It was a Sunday evening. No mechanics were working. So it was the next day when I got the bad news from the owner of a service station in Margate.

“The engine is dead,” he said.

“Can it be fixed?” I asked. (My knowledge of auto repair can be contained in a thimble.)

“Maybe,” he told me, “but I wouldn’t drive it.”

His advice came with a bill of $131.65.

Having heard, over and over, ads on the radio for a charity willing to pick up autos, I agreed to donate my decade-old friend.

And then my sensitivities hit: My car … it served me faithfully. It never went through a red light. Never found itself parked illegally. Never complained when a retaining wall met its rear bumper, or when a bush at the end of my driveway grew out, scraping the side. It always passed inspection, never a failing grade.

Together, we had amenities not to be found on today’s cars: a cassette player, room for three to sit on a bench-type seat in the front, and a push-button entrance panel outside the driver’s seat (never a worry about locking the key n the car.)

It’s difficult not to use the female gender when referring to my car. She had such a good-looking, sleek exterior and comfortable interior. From time to time, I would pat the dashboard, as one does with a pet, and say: “Good car.”

So when the tow-truck driver from the charity arrived, hooked up my travel companion, and prepared to drive away, I felt depressed.

I patted my Grand Marquis for the last time. “Old friend,” I said, “goodbye.”
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