The DeHart household is a little somber today. My wife just realized that ten years ago today we bid our final farewell to Big Red. Lois was very fond of Big Red, and I don’t think she’s ever truly allowed herself to go through the grieving process. Sometimes she’ll see or hear something that reminds her of Big Red, and her eyes will get all misty. Just between you and me, I didn’t really care that much about Big Red. Oh sure, it was fun taking her for a ride, and I remember how Lois and I used to wash her out in front of the house. We’d get her all soaped up and the two of us would end up just as wet as Big Red. Yes, we had some good memories with Big Red, but she took up a lot of space and needed a lot of attention. It seemed like there was always something wrong with her. It soon became more expensive to take care of her than she was worth. I know, I know. That sounds cold hearted. Like I keep telling Lois, Big Red is in a better place now. In the end I think it was all for the better that she left us when she did. We were only prolonging the inevitable. Sooner or later you just have to accept the fact that they won’t be there forever. Now matter how much love and money to put into them, eventually your favorite car is going to give up the ghost.

Lois and I bought Big Red when we were engaged. I had a ‘76 Corolla at the time, but Lois was without transportation and starting her student teaching. She needed her own transportation, so we decided we would buy our first car together. It was a romantic notion, but what the heck, we were in love and would be married soon.

Now, you have to understand that I know next to nothing about cars. Sure, I could change the oil, check the radiator fluid and fill up the gas tank. But when the car started making a funny noise or the engine began to sputter or stall, I relied on the tried and true three step technique of problem solving.

Step 1: Ignore it and hope that it gets better. I mean, hey, it works for people. I get a cold and my body produces the right antibodies to fight it off. I cut my finger and my blood produces platelets that form blood clots, stop the bleeding and over time the cut heals over. I don’t see why the same wouldn’t be true for a car.

Step 2: If the problem persists, or if Lois keeps reminding me about that “tink” under the hood, I perform a visual inspection of the engine. I don’t actually look for anything. I just figure if something’s wrong, it’s gonna jump out at me and say, “Here’s the problem. The flange-plated mucker is out of alignment. Just tighten it a twist or two and she’ll be purring like a kitten in no time.” At the very least it’ll show Lois that I’m doing everything I can to keep the car running.

Step 3: Wait till she breaks down and then I take her into the Zeke’s Garage where I pay Zeke with money I don’t have to tell me that the flange-plated mucker is out of alignment. Of course, Zeke needs to order special parts that’ll take two weeks to arrive and with parts and labor, the total will be enough to pay for that new gun rack he’s had his eye on and have enough left over bail his kid out of jail. And to think, I could’ve bought my own gun rack if I had just tightened that stupid flange-plated mucker when I had the chance.

It goes without saying that if I know nothing about cars then I also know nothing about buying cars. I’m also lousy at bargaining, so going to a car dealership with a slick salesman is the last thing I want to do. I’ve been told that one of the best people to buy a car from is someone you know. So, we figured we were in luck when the old folks next door to where Lois grew up were selling their car.

Lois grew up in a small town called Ferndale, up near the border to Canada. The Olsens were an elderly couple, who Lois testified were the sweetest folks you could ever meet. So we pulled our money together and went to visit the Olsens.

“Allow me to introduce you to Big Red,” said Mr. Olsen as he opened the door to his garage. “We’re the original owners. We hardly ever drive her, and when we do it’s just around town.”

I glanced at Lois for confirmation, but she only had eyes for the red four-door 1965 Chevy Bel Air that filled the garage. I could tell from the dreamy look in her eyes that she wanted that car. You guys know the look. It’s the same look women get when they drive by a Baskin Robbins.

I knew that if Lois wanted it, I would do anything I could to make that car ours. But as I stared at the thing I realized how enormous it was. I was surprised that it even fit in the garage instead of the other way around. I could barely open the door to climb into the drivers seat for a test drive. Then I had to back it out of the garage so Lois could get in the passenger seat. I waved at her across the distance of the bench seat.

“What do you think?” I shouted to her. She cupped her hand to her ear and leaned closer. She shouted something back to me, but I could barely make out the words, so she scooted across the seat till she was next to me and told me she loved it.

I admit, it was fun thinking of having a car that was made the year I was born. I was still in the prime of my life. I knew I had a long life ahead of me, so this car should do just as well. Still, I didn’t have the same strong emotional bond with Big Red that Lois did. She saw it as a classic car that would be fun to take to the drive in or on a Sunday drive.

That’s not to say I didn’t like Big Red. In fact, I saw some distinct advantages to owning it. The size, for instance, was a big plus. It was built before they started making those complicated engines. Now a days, they pack everything in under the hood so tight that you have to be contortionist to be able to reach in and unscrew the drain plug to change the oil. Don’t even think about realigning the flange-plated mucker without taking the engine apart. But with Big Red, the engine was a straightforward V-8. No fancy electronics or complicated fuel injection systems. There was so much room under the hood, not only could I see through to the ground, but I could climb in with the engine if I ever needed to work on it. In fact, I felt confident that I could handle just about any repair that might be needed to keep that car running.

Another advantage to the size was the roominess of the interior. Since I was just out of college and barely making a living, I thought that in the event that I found myself unemployed, Lois and I could easily pack our scant belongings into the car and live in it. Heck, I figured we could sleep six in there comfortably, so we could have guests overnight. And if kids were in our future, we could turn the glove box into a crib.

A quick drive around the block and Lois and I were hooked. The only thing left was negotiating the price. I pulled back into the driveway to find Mr. Olsen cleaning up an oil spill on the garage floor where the car had been parked. I asked him how much he wanted for the car.

Mr. Olsen scratched his chin and got all misty eyed. “It’s hard to put a price on her. She’s been with us so long, she’s more like one of the family. It’ll be hard to part with Big Red. You know, I taught myson to drive in that car. And I drove him down to the recruiting station in her when he enlisted to fight in Vietnam. That was the last time I saw him. But I suppose, Lois here being a neighbor and all, it’s not like we’ll never see her again. And we’ll know that she’s in good hands. I guess I could let you have her for $5,000.”

I was devastated. There was no way we could afford to pay $5,000. But the look in Lois’ eyes told me that she really wanted that car. “Are you sure you can’t bring the price down a little? All we’ve got is $500.” I held up the cash, so he could see it.

“Sold!” He shouted and snatched the money from my hands before he could change his mind. I could see by the way his hands trembled as he counted the bills that it was hard for him to accept such a cut in price.

Back then gas was less than a buck a gallon, so we weren’t too concerned about the amount of gas Big Red guzzled on a daily basis. Instead of tracking miles per gallon, we closely monitored her miles per quart of oil or MPQs. Big Red consumed a lot of oil. I kept a couple cases of oil in the trunk, so I could top her off after driving a few miles. We also noticed visibility could be a problem. With all the smoke pouring out of the exhaust pipe, we could barely see the cars behind us. Once after returning from our first road trip, some friends told us they saw a car just like ours driving down the freeway on fire. What a coincidence.

After getting familiar with Big Red I developed other concerns, one being saftey. Back then they made the dashboard out of metal and with only lap belts, I figured a head on collision would leave a dent the size of a watermelon in the forehead of anyone sitting in the front seat. But my concerns were unfounded. I eventually realized that with Big Red being so large if we ran into anything smaller than a semi, we’d barely notice the impact.

I could go on and on about all the great times Lois and I had driving Big Red around town, but none of them come to mind at the moment. We brought her with us when we moved to Kent. We drove her less and less as time went by. I toyed with the idea of taking the engine out and rebuilding it but with the same level of enthusiasm I have toward getting my teeth drilled by a dentist on Novocain–the dentist, that is, not me.

Then the unthinkable happened. Someone tried to steal Big Red. We woke one morning to find broken glass on the pavement where we had last parked the car. But it wasn’t a total loss. We were able to follow the lingering trail of smoke and oil down the street and around the corner where the thief had abandoned Big Red after the engine had overheated.

I had yet to make my fortune as a best-selling author, so we decided replacing the broken window and fixing the engine were outside our budget. So, we put a “for sale” sign on the windshield asking for the best offer. The offers starting pouring in with the same regularity as the offers to publish my first novel. We decided we might get more interest in Big Red if we had a garage sale. We parked her out front next to my old desk and the recliner I had inherited from a college roommate. Big Red received a lot of attention throughout the day. People had to circumnavigate the front of the Bel Air to reach our trove of treasures for sale. There were a lot of hushed whispers and pointing at Big Red, usually followed by snickers or heads shaking in disbelief.

At the end of the day as we were packing up the remnants from our sale, a large, white truck pulled up to our driveway. Next to Big Red, the truck looked like a toy. A hefty man in greasy jeans and a Seahawks jersey emerged from the cab of the truck and waddled over to Big Red.

He scratched his beard with his meaty hand. He leaned in through the broken drivers window to inspect the interior then treked to the front of the vehicle to look under the hood. “Looks like she blew a gasket,” he declared loudly. “How much you asking for her?”

“It’s hard to put a price on her,” I said wiping a tear from my eye. “She’s like one of the family. She was an engagement gift for my wife. But you look like you know how to take care of her, so I suppose we could part with her for, I don’t know, $500?”

“I’ll give you 50 bucks for her,” he said holding up a fistfull of tens.

“Sold.” I grabbed the money from his hand before he could change his mind, and I handed him the keys. My hands trembled as I counted the bills.

It was a sad end to the day, watching Big Red in tow behind the white truck. Lois couldn’t take it and ran inside grief stricken.

But like I said, I was never that attached to Big Red. I (sniff) hardly ever (sniff) think about her any more. Oh, who am I fooling? I loved that car like it was my own. Well, it was my own after all.