Car Persons

I am not a car person. I still stand by that, even though I shed tears over mine recently.

In October 2004, I purchased my first vehicle, a 2004 Hyundai Sonata. Although my husband and I had purchased several vehicles together by then, this was the only car that was truly mine. There was no necessity to make room for carriages, car seats, or to transport children. By the time I purchased it, our children were in their twenties. I chose the color I wanted, the interior I wanted, and yes--it had both a cassette player and a CD player.

About a month ago, after 21 years, I donated it.

Over the past four years, because of my eyesight, it became the family loaner, helping them avoid car rentals and missed workdays during repairs. Over the decades I had handed the keys to our daughter, both of our sons, our first granddaughter, and our first grandson. That is probably pretty unusual when I think about it. Same car, always there….

These last four years would be the second instance when I handed over the keys for an extended period. From 2006 to 2007, I was very ill and unable to drive. Our youngest son, Daniel, was in the driver’s seat and I was his passenger for almost a year. I remember how happy I was the day I was well enough to get back in the driver’s seat. I said I would never complain about driving again. Just like back then, this time I imagined that I would drive my car again when my eyesight returns, though just long enough to find my next new car. Maybe that would have made letting it go easier somehow. But it had not occurred to me that it would even be sad or emotional until it was.

I always thought I’d trade it in or give it away someday. But one snowy morning, seeing it parked, I had the thought: someone else could be using this. Someone who needs it now.

I reached out to a donation program, and it happened so fast.

I was surprised by my sadness.

That car carried my mom to brunch on Sundays, and to Toledo to pick up Thrive papers from the printer. We would alternate between the CD player, the cassette player, and the radio, singing loud and off-key; and stop along the way to do some shopping, of course. Once Mom became ill and my sister Tony would fly in, I loved having her drive it while I rode along. A few times we were able to take Mom shopping and having her in the passenger seat again would take me back to those trips to Toledo or Sunday brunch. Her last ride in the car was to TJ Maxx, which always energized her and made her happy. Mom loved to shop. The car was witness to all of that.

It’s interesting how objects become part of our stories. Not because they’re special in themselves, but because of the time they travel with us. Twenty-one years is long enough for a car to watch your children grow up — and your grandchildren too.

People sometimes ask how my vision is. I explain that it’s like those dream sequences you see on television — it disappears into nothing the farther you look. I stood at the curb and watched the gentleman hook the car up to the tow truck and gently load it. He told me we were all set, waved, and I snapped a few photos as they pulled off into what is next.

Ninety percent of the miles over all those years came from within a forty-mile radius of Detroit. It knows the city well.

I still have a container with cassette tapes and CDs. When I am able to drive again, I will purchase a new car. I’m certain a cassette player will not be an option — not sure about CD players in newer models, but we’ll see. There will never be another car like that one that goes through a particular time of life with us and serves as a witness.

I smile about it now because these kinds of experiences are always revealing.

Turns out that while I’m not a car person, I am a time person. And that car held a lot of it.

I’m grateful. Grateful it lasted. Grateful it served. Grateful it can now serve someone else.

Author: Delphia Simmons

Delphia Simmons, Founder of Thrive Detroit, dedicated to amplifying voices and fostering community through storytelling.