This is Nellie.
She sure as hell doesn't look like much, does she? And to be sure, her looks were not
Nellie's strongest asset. Her talents were in other areas. Nellie was
never the girl you ogled. Nellie was the girl you married and who gave
birth to your kids.
And after four years of utter faithfulness in the holy bond between car
and owner, the poor girl, as I write this, should be on her way to the
junkyard.
Nellie was never supposed to have lasted this long. We paid $800 for
her in January, 2000 and she was meant to be just temporary car;
something to get us from point a to point b until we could afford
something nicer. But life has a funny way of interfering with grand
plans devised by humans who have an atrocious track record with cars.
We did get something nicer, but thanks to a zealous Hennepin County
prosecutor and a felony DWI conviction, that car is no longer with us,
either. Fortunately, however, we're not car-less for the time being,
due to family members who have a spare and have loaned it to us. Unlike
other times when we've been told that a car needed to be junked,
neither of us is all that upset. Honestly, we're not, and it's a bit
surprising. The inconvenience is outweighed by the relief that the
worst finally
happened. And it's really not the worst, either. We're both of the
opinion that the poor girl deserved a rest and it's for the best. When
we bought her, a friend of mine said the body would fall off before the
engine died and, as you can see from the picture, he wasn't far off.
But she blew a timing chain last week and it was going to cost close to
five hundred bucks to fix her. The husband and I had decided that while
she was a great car, it was time to let her go; that it wasn't worth it
to fix her, particularly when so many other things on her were on the
verge of happening. The rear struts were rusted and on the brink of
collapsing. There was a hole in the fill neck (?) to the gas tank,
which meant, since last summer, we could never fill her with a full
tank of gas or it would leak (and it was dicey taking a cloverleaf that
put the car on an angle where the driver's side was on the bottom---you
could smell the gas leaking---not good)and it was just a matter of time
until the hole got bigger and more deadly. Her body was rusted and she
was bouncy and squeaky in the extreme, and she had a tendency to take
you to the brink of overheating, although she never did. She got us
around, and as long as we kept her in town and off clogged freeways,
she did all right. For all her faults, the only time, and I mean the only
time, she didn't turn over was when she crashed and burned last week.
And about ninety-seven percent of the time she turned over on the first
try. She was reliable in the extreme. And considering that we kept
asking her to deliver long past the point where she should have been
put to pasture, it's surprising that she kept delivering.
Particularly since she had close to 250,000 miles on her.
But she's gone. To junkyard heaven where, because of her age, she will
be squished rather than stripped for parts. She'll then be sold for
scrap. We will miss her. Nellie's taught me a few things: functionality
is more important than aesthetics; that you should never assume that
because something's old that it won't work or last; but most
importantly, she's taught me that...ahem...I will never buy another American-made car as long as I live.
Detroit-schmoit. I've had it with those ignorant asses. I want a car to
be reliable. I don't want to spend half-my life in the shop, waiting
for the stupid thing to be fixed because some nimrod at one of the Big
Three automakers thought it would be a good idea to make shitty parts
so they could increase their profits when they broke down---because
they would break down; it was a part of the gig. I'm done with
it. D.O.N.E. If a 1983 Camry with over 200,000 miles can last for four
years with minimal maintenence, I'm never spending time in a
Ford/GM/Chrysler dealership waiting for a newer, American-made, car to
be fixed. I'm just not going to. I've got better things to do. Now, one
of my brothers, when he reads this, is going to flip. He will scream,
"No! She can't say that!" Sure I can, but he still won't be pleased
with his baby sister's opinion. You see, he's co-owner of the largest
chain of dealerships in Montana---and with the exception of his Subaru
dealership---the others are all American. (Although, now that I think
about it, I think he's got a Daewoo or a Hyundai dealership? Honestly,
given his position as the Donald Trump of the Montana car scene, it's
hard to keep track.) He's a big believer in American cars. Not because
he has to be, but simply because he is. It's a genuine thing on his
part, and honestly, how many car dealers can you say that
about? Not many. But that's his opinion and that's fine. To each their
own and all that, but Stevie-baby, no offense or anything, I ain't never buying American again.
How many times do I have to get hit upside the head with the rather
simple observation that American cars blow? I've learned my lesson on
this one. It's going to be difficult, however, in the meantime. The
husband, along with my brother, is also a big American-made car
aficianado. His dad headed up the first American factory that was
allowed to import car parts to Japan, for use in Japanese cars. He also
has good reason to buy American. But we've owned so many American-made
cars and they've all been crap that you'd think he'd see it too by now.
But he doesn't. The next car we get, no doubt, he will want to be
American. And he will push hard for it to be American. Well, I'm tired
of it. It's rather simple in my mind: Japanese=reliable, American=too
much fucking time spent getting them fixed. I'm just not going to do
it. I SWEAR!
So, anyway, fare thee well, Nellie. Enjoy the squishing and may your
reincarnation as a piece of rebar or whatever be a pleasant experience.