I’ve had my share of cars, but none of them have made it almost 12 years or were “driven into the ground” like my 1995 Mercury Tracer trio package four-door wagon hatchback.
That hunk of metal still sported its original paint — a metallic aqua green with only one rust spot festering on the hatch. Aside from the front windshield, the rest of the glass was original. Almost every piece of machinery in it had been replaced until substitutes were no longer an option or worth the investment. Time ran out on my plan to save for the next vehicle.
Despite the age of that Tracer, deemed “Harry’s wagon” two years ago when my cat of 17 years was alive and going to football and basketball games with me, it ran pretty well. But it was parked at Dixon Tire for the last time in January. That Tracer sat there while I tracked down a lien release from Chevrolet after I mistakenly threw away the cleared title and until I could clean the car out somewhat before Smitty’s Salvage came for it.
I appreciate John Dixon for allowing me to keep the car parked there much longer than I’m sure either of us thought it would stay.
It’s a little odd to pass by and not see it still sitting there. I have fragments of memories of a gray-haired cat bobbing its head in and out of view.
If it hadn’t been for Mike Slupianek’s skill and inventiveness to keep the car pieced together, she probably wouldn’t have made it 12 years.
About four or five years ago he started asking me, “Isn’t it about time to get another car?” And I’d say, “Not yet.”
I knew its day was coming even as cans of WD-40 kept the doors greased enough to open. The defrost wasn’t working as quickly as it once had, the heater and air conditioning weren’t working at full blast, the mileage for a tank of gas was gradually declining, and the windows were getting harder to roll down.
As I picked through what was in that car, I realized a person can accumulate a lot over the years and that even inanimate objects have too many memories and emotions attached. I found things I forgot I owned, about 10 ice scrapers and several other items I thought had been lost or had mysteriously vanished.
Most of that stuff was collected during border-to-border trips to see family, Jaycee ventures or going to sports events.
That car didn’t know every nook and cranny or shortcut from here to wherever, but it made it 247,869 miles before it couldn’t go any more.
I celebrated with that car on the side of the road, raising a can of diet cola in its honor, in the middle of nowhere when the odometer turned over to 100,000. That was the only car I’ve owned to make it that far.
I had cars that didn’t need keys to start, that fit far more inside than physically possible, and that lasted as long as deer, bushes and reckless drivers stayed out of the way. I had cars that survived pelting hail storms, and one that made it through the tornado near Towne East in Wichita while cars near it were demolished by light poles. I’ve even owned a used lemon.
With that ole Tracer, I didn’t need it to be anything more than what it was. … Except I would have been happy had it run longer.
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