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July 3, 2000
Not my Mustang, but
you get the idea.
The New Rodent Review
My
car is dead. The Mustang that once belonged to my grandfather, and
then my mother, and then to me has finally passed into that great beyond.
Many of you are aware of this vehicle, a 1987 White Ford Mustang.
In its life it had two engines, two transmissions, and a countless numbers
of dings and dents. Dents that came from two teenage brothers, learning
how to drive. I had broken down in that car in such exotic places
as the side of I-695, in Damascus, MD, on both Connecticut and New Hampshire
Avenues in the District, and several places up and down Route 29.
Now I finally realize, it just doesn't make any sense to keep throwing
money at her like it will make things better. After nearly 170,000
miles she is no more.
I remember, the night I drove her to the prom and got hit by the off duty
Baltimore City police officer in front of the on duty Howard County police
officer. That dent was in her back right panel till the day she died.
It always reminded me that I had had to take my prom date home before I
even got the chance to kiss her on the shores of beautiful, man made, Lake
Kitimicundy. Or there was the time I broke down right at the 695
and 795 split and had to walk two miles in the middle of December to call
someone to pick me up. The time I broke down on New Hampshire
Ave. and blocked the right lane of traffic during rush hour and ended up
making the traffic report and learning numerous new hand gestures.
The fondest memory however had to be learning to drive in that car.
My grandfather took me out and tried to teach me how to drive and parallel
park. I think Grandpa volunteered because my dad was a little scared
after a trip with me on the Beltway, where I never used my mirrors and
kept turning in the seat to check the traffic. Grandpa picked me
up in what was then a new and shiny Ford Mustang. The seats were
still new, and there were none of the dents caused by falling tree limbs
and bad driving that would later mark the car as mine. I got into
the car and proceeded to drive. I drove it right up over a curb.
I hit that curb head on and only stopped when the car was half way up on
someone's lawn. I can still hear grandpa yelling, "Scotty. Scotty! Scotty!!!"
I have to tell you all that the only person I have liked calling me Scotty
was my grandfather. I tolerate it now in my later years, but when
I was growing up, only grandpa called me Scotty. I slowly backed the car
up and he let me drive it to the high school parking lot and we practiced
parallel parking for the next two hours.
Grandpa died a year later and he left the car to my mom. I think
about that day and realize how much my grandfather must have loved me.
Trusting a little punk 16 year old with his new Ford Mustang. Not the old
beat up Mustang, where you had to open the driver side door from the inside.
Not the Mustang that had an oil leak that never really got fixed.
And not the Mustang that I had to push up Connecticut Ave. because it was
overheating every half block for ten blocks. That car used to be
chariot. A symbol of everything my grandfather, a retired truck driver,
had worked a lifetime for. That Mustang was a beautiful expression of a
man who loved me very much.
In the glove compartment of the Mustang, is a clip-on teddy bear, the kind
they had when I was a kid, and an old pair of sun glasses. They both
belonged to my grandfather and I think they will be in every car I drive
for the rest of my life. Because as frustrating as that car was for
the last three years, it always took me exactly where I needed to be, even
when it was broken down on the side of road.
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