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Published on 08/04/1997 All articles from this issue

Other Voices

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By Frances Kennedy Maas

A loyalty oath to my 1977 El Dorado

Every time I pass you in the garage these days, I give you a pat. Do not let me down, I implore you. Remember, I didn't junk you when you became old, started leaking oil, and needed a new top. I identified with you. We'd been through so much together.

** missed drop char **In May 1994, when mechanics tried to stop your small oil leak, they made it worse. I took you back three times, but you leaked more than ever. I learned from experience they put so much stress on your front end trying to repair you, you came apart at the seams.

In January 1995, as I exited a main freeway and drove on to a busy street, you came to an abrupt stop. Your engine was running, but both of your front wheels were turned inward, pigeon-toed. While a policeman directed traffic, the AAA tow truck driver hitched you to his truck and left, hauling you to Los Altos. How undignified you looked going down the street with your front end in the air, exposed to ridicule.

Next day our mechanic, Wayne, checked you.

"Frances, you could have been killed," he said to me as he examined you. "You would have had no control had this break happened as you left the freeway. This car would have rolled for sure."

After having you towed to a garage and examining you, Wayne called to give me an estimate of $6,000 for repairs. How could I justify this expense? The Blue Book value for you was $2,000. I pondered long and hard. In the thousands of miles I had driven you, we became bonded. I justified the expense by remembering your loyalty to me.

In October 1981, when you were less than five years old, with my oldest son, Malcolm, driving you, and my youngest Steven on the other side of me, I held your giver's ashes as we drove to Golden Gate National Cemetery to bury them.

In times of stress and panic attacks, I'd driven you to my home in the Sierra Nevada where you'd patiently waited while I healed. Eventually, I learned I couldn't run away from grief.

In 1986, I lost two friends to cancer. After helping with their eulogies, I had you thoroughly checked. Just to prove I was still alive, I then drove you 10,000 miles.

In the Deep South, I danced in the Latin Quarter in New Orleans, played tennis in Mobile, saw mountains of azaleas in Atlanta; lovely, sleek thoroughbred horses in the blue-grass fields of Kentucky, wild wisteria all across Tennessee, and had you driven down the Mississippi River while I rode the Delta Queen. We visited the battlefield at Vicksburg, and the antebellum homes at Natchez. Finally, we stopped at the capitol in Baton Rouge. There your familiar sight awaited me. You were like coming home.

I'll admit after you had been in the shop all spring of 1995 getting the $6,000 worth of work done, and I'd only had you back three weeks when your engine started making noises, I was tempted to say goodbye.

I didn't ask for friends' opinions, but rest assured, I got plenty of advice.

"Cut your losses," they said. "Buy a new car. Don't you know you're being taken advantage of?"

"I was taught to trust people until they proved I couldn't," I answered.

During the day, my thoughts were focused on you and at night my dreams were all about you. Choices and options flooded my mind. Remembrances, also.

With tornado-like winds in the Mojave Desert, small cars were being tossed about, crossing the dividing line on the highway and frightening me. Like the proper lady you are, you didn't fail to keep your distance.

Early one morning out of Lone Pine, Calif., I saw the sun rise eight times as we went over one crest after another. I remembered how you labored to reach 9,600 feet to get over the Sonora Pass and down to our home in Pinecrest.

I called Wayne. "Give her a new engine," I told him. "And while you're at it, a new top, re-chrome the grill, put new motors on the doors, seats, trunk and antennas. Repair any upholstery that needs it. I want her to look as good as she can for I'll be driving her the rest of my driving days."

No, I can never part with you, no matter the cost. When I can no longer drive you, should Wayne not want you, and my heirs sell you, they can honestly say you've only been driven by a little old lady in tennis shoes.

Frances Kennedy Maas is a Los Altos resident.