Too Fond of Books

What we thought was going to be a routine checkup on our '91 Nissan Sentra this morning turned into a referendum of repair v. replace, and in the end, replace won. (The power steering gear is broken, has been for a while now, and is starting to mess up other parts of the engine. To replace it would have been at least $600, without labor costs. The car's resale value is only $1,000--on a good day.) Technically speaking, this car owes us nothing: a little over 145,000 miles on it, almost 20 years old, paint job destroyed long ago by factory screw-up, we were compensated, etc. etc. Yet as I drove the car back home one last time, I felt like I was leading a beloved pet to slaughter. It rumbled along under me as it always had, with that alarming half-thump, half-growl from somewhere near the back tires and with the utter conviction that one of the doors was open even though none of them were, blithely unaware that this was probably the final time I, or anyone in my family, would drive it.

I used to proudly tell people that I learned to drive on this car. It was the "newest" used car that my parents had ever chosen (my parents did not buy a car new until only a few years ago), and it was an automatic, which was a big deal. If I was lucky enough to sit in the front (a hotly contested spot), I got the best view of the road. The shoulder belt would slide up and over the door frame and gently hold me in. My parents, especially my Mom, freed from the shifting of previous cars, would fiddle with the overdrive on/off button at lights. When it my turn to drive a few years later, I was so excited and nervous that I could hardly contain myself. The Sentra hummed encouragingly beneath me; I tapped the gas pedal and then slammed on the brakes, alarmed that I had made the car do something, anything. It was unreal, but only for a few minutes. Then it was a rush of freedom, giddy and intoxicating and marvelously alive. I was driving. I could go ANYWHERE. Over the years, when I returned to San Diego, that same rush always awaited me the first time I drove the car. I don't need anyone! I don't need anything! I can go anywhere! And this car, the beat up old silver Sentra was that idea made physically real, dependable and sturdy, with a cassette stereo and the all-important a/c. I cheered it on as it rumbled up hills (the engine was not happy and the car would always slow down, usually to the annoyance of people behind us). It took me and my friends to Santa Monica, downtown, so many times out to Escondido and back. It survived rainstorms, heat, and other (read: idiot) drivers. It got great mileage and allowed me to be smug whenever a Hummer rolled by. It only gave me real trouble once, when we had to replace the ignition. And aside from its grumbling, thumpy noises, it never complained.

I know that possessions don't last, and that one shouldn't focus on material goods. I know that this is the right decision. But damned if I don't feel like that car was a huge part of my life and that giving that up is strange and somehow very sad. Of course, I can still go anywhere, but that's a tempered feeling now. I'm married, trying to start a business, with family nearby and all of these things are happy responsibilities. But part of that idea of freedom is about to leave my life, and it's weird.