I’m afraid there’s been a death in the family.
My trusty and faithful Nissan Pulsar hatch, 1989 model, has finally gone to the great caryard in the sky. After years of the most wonderful service, it expired doing what it loved doing best: driving me around.
The fact that it died in the upper reaches of the Yarra Valley and required that I wait around interminably on a cold and wet afternoon while the tow-truck showed up is irrelevant. Indeed, it would be churlish of me to mention how death, occurring at this juncture, caused me no amount of inconvenience. Greater love hath no car…
I once wrote a poem about my car. An awful, eminently forgettable adolescent effort that praised both its loyalty to my person and the reliability of its performance. As I think about that poem now, I recall my car’s gleaming body panels, smoothly functioning electric side mirrors, and whisper quiet air-conditioning.
Alas, such was the glory of Rome! The dear old thing was looking a tad shabby in the last few years, showing the effects both of my hard usage and the wearing of age. The once pristine panels had become dented (thanks to some wretch who side-swiped me in a car-park and didn’t leave their details). The side mirrors hardly worked, and only then with an asthmatic whine. The air-conditioning was inoperable, making the vehicle virtually unusable in Summer. Even expensive surgery a couple of years back by way of a major service and overhaul only delayed the inevitable…
Perhaps it’s for the best. It now remains to effect the last rights – with what small, if solemn, ceremony will I mark the man from the wrecking yard towing away my departed vehicle to its final resting place! As Irish comedian Dave Allen once observed: death is a very important part of the Irish way of life. So I think I’ll just crack open a bottle of Glenmorangie and wish the dear old thing God’s speed…
Talk to you soon,
BB
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4 comments:
Dear couch potato
I too had a favourite car. It was a 1973 Kingswood. It belonged to my father before me and was my first car. It saw me through many happy days in my formative adult years.
The car was called Kevi. Kevi Kingswood. The tailend of the Kingswood sign on the boot had broken, and the 'W' had fallen off, so that with the last three letters turned upside down, it spelt 'Kings poo'.
It often ran out of petrol, sometimes due to a faulty petrol gauge, but more often due to my inability to finance its consumption. The three on the tree gear stick would regularly get stuck in first. This would happen in the most inconvenient places but it was easily fixed by lifting the bonnet and giving the gears a good thump. Those were the days when I could recognise the gears under the hood and the only wiring was to the spark plugs.
Kevi accompanied me to balls, parties, beers by the creek, drive ins with mates and girl friends, football training and on many adventures. It also often doubled as a place to sleep after parties.
On one occassion when the battery was flat (again not an unusual occurrence), myself and a mate left its engine running while we popped into the 'top pub' for a quick beer. That beer tasted so good we decided on another, followed by another. Some time later (the exact time I don't know), a local entered the pub to say (in slow country drawl), "Mike, is that your car across the road with smoke comin' out of the bonnet"? Indeed it was.
Kevi hated water. One time I drove from Brisbane to Emerald just to drop a mate off. On the way back, I broke my windscreen. Graziers were burning off their paddocks as I drove back toward Kilcoy, so every grasshopper and insect on for a fifty kilometre stretch ended up in my back seat. Then thirty minutes outside Nanango, huge thunder clouds started to gather. The heavens opened just ten minutes out of town leaving me soaked to the bone and only able to drive at about 20 kilometres per hour because of the force of the rain. I arrived in Nanango and spotted a closed service station through the downpour - a place of refuge. Between me and the service station was a flooded intersection. Kevi entered the intersection, but upon hitting the water, refused to go further. There I sat until the storm cleared and the spark plugs dried.
We would have races over the top of Kevi which left lasting dints in the roof. It had a stereo which was worth more than the vehicle itself in its dying days. In the end, Kevi died just a few days before I was to leave him for a nineteen month stint overseas. He died by the side of the road in Caboolture. He could not be sold - and it cost us money to have him taken away and laid to rest. His stereo was salvaged and transplanted into another persons car.
The Queensland Connection
Dear QC:
Thanks for your comment - you and Kevi obviously had a lot of fun times together!! I know quite a few people who have "named" their cars - plenty of Datsun's called Sunny and VW's called Herbie!
I'm not surprised Kevi hated water, though - you sound like the kind of bloke who never touches the stuff himself. Kinda like another Mike in Queensland of my acquaintance...
But I miss my little car already. Funny the things that cause you to get a lump in the throat, eh?
Thanks again for the comment,
BB
My first car was a 1963 "Rose Taupe" coloured Morris Major Elite. More prosaically the colour would be known as Purple. What a thing of beauty she was! My father had her re-sprayed for me and had lovely green valour seats put in...
We went everywhere together. My friends affectionatly nicknamed her "Charlotte the harlot." When she finally went to the great car yard in the sky I cried bucket loads. I even used to carry a photo of her in my purse. No car has every meant quite as much to me since!
Have a great weekend BB and keep up the amusing prose - you are keeping me mightily entertained!!!
SB
Dear SB:
Thanks for your comment, and for your kind praise.
Your first car sounds wonderful, especially the "Rose Taupe" colour...I had a mental picture of a panel van similiarly painted, with an airbrushed goddess or some such stretched languidly over the bonnett...
You have a good weekend, too.
BB
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