When they notice the paint is exuberantly jumping off of their car, normal people consider it might be a good time to buy a new car. But this, of course, is my car. It’s older than my blog. I’d say it was older than dirt, but some of the original dirt is still on it.
I was surprised to notice the paint vanishment, though. I figured if you just left your car at the curb and never bothered it with soap or wax or anything, the paint would just stay put out of loyalty if nothing else. Or if it was inclined to wander, it would be sealed down with all the bird poop. I mean, otherwise, what is the point of parking under the power lines?
Actually, I was a little set back by the bird poop accumulation, which has far exceeded previous efforts, and was beginning to develop some topography. In my usual deductive fashion, I thought it was evidence of my efforts to attract more birds to the garden, or maybe evidence of a new digestive enthusiasm on the part of the regulars. Took me a few days before it occurred to me that my standard car hygiene–God’s Car Wash–had pretty much shut down for the last year. We did get two inches of rain a couple weekends ago but that was by far the most we’d had since last January. If you’ve been dissuaded from moving to Oregon because it rains all the time, fear no more. Now we’re the land of smoke and dead trees.
So after the rain a lot of the car looks a little neater now, not that I was inclined to get a new one anyway. It would be fun, and if I did it would be all-electric, but even an all-electric car has nothing on mine, virtue-wise. Mine’s all-gas but it’s parked. And there’s a significant cost to the planet of manufacturing a new one. And the electricity for a car might come from coal. So. No new car for me, unless someone creams this one. Have at it.
Besides, there’s a lot to be said for mine. If someone scuffs it up, as someone apparently just did last week, I don’t really care. That’s a freedom. My curb-feelers work great, and will until a little more rubber is scraped off the sidewalls. My blind-spot protection is second to none, as long as I have a passenger with a good set of lungs. Thanks to the hole in the floorboards that Dave created with his imaginary brake pedal, we’ve got a good auxiliary Fred Flintstone power boost system, or good enough–he’s seventy now, so he can’t keep up highway speeds for long like he used to.
The sound system isn’t all it could be, I’ll admit that. We still have a thumping bass but the treble is way out of practice and both of us have trouble with the lyrics of everything except Build Me Up Buttercup.
It might be nice to be able to unlock the doors from a few feet away, but you don’t really need them unlocked until you get there anyway, even if it’s raining, which it isn’t anymore. We do each have to roll our own windows down by hand. But that’s fun. It’s worth it just to put a young person in the seat and watch them feel along the side panel for the button like they’re trying to find the spot that makes the bookcase wall turn around in a mystery movie.
I’m sure I could get used to one bell or one whistle if I had it. I’d probably get to where I couldn’t imagine doing without it. But there’s also a lot to be said for keeping the number of things you can’t live without to a minimum.