Rolling money pit puts a bit of a strain on marital bliss
Our old car gave until she had nothing left to give. Then she started to take. Once reliable as the rising sun, she had taken to “nickel and diming” me about a year ago. And blindly faithful to one that had been so true to me, I ponied up — again and again and again — until the nickels and dimes could’ve filled a Brinks truck. This thing had to go.
Kristin and I have only truly shopped for a car once before. We were fresh out of college, and revved up on the rush of a dual income, we surfed the dealerships with glee. It was a heady time. We settled on a sporty little 5-speed hatchback — our first brand-new car.
The ecstasy would be short-lived. It was to be our only brand-new car.
A year later we traded it for a 10-year-old station wagon that could more easily accommodate a baby seat — or two or three. We drove that beast until it fell to dust (or more precisely and less poetically, rust), then bought another 10-year-old wagon and so forth and so on.
Interestingly, we never really shopped for those successors. We’d just call up my sister-in-law’s brother-in-law, and he’d find us our next suburban chariot — no push, no shove, no haggling and (best of all) no cheesy cologne.
Unfortunately, we’ve timed out of the “family car guy” hookup as Bob, and even the next generation of “Bob,” has retired from the business. We were left with nowhere to turn other than the car market mainstream.
Those who know me at all are well aware that when it comes to shopping for anything other than fresh produce or necessary hardware, I’d rather be dipped in honey and rolled in bees. Nevertheless, necessity forces even the most shopping-averse to enter the fray. One more roadside stranding and I’d probably be shopping for a new wife, and given that beautiful, lovable female cartoonists are in perpetually short supply, I figured I’d better act.
The primary goal of our quest was to acquire a vehicle capable of reliably carrying us along through the next decade or two. (Don’t roll your eyes. My pickup is closing in on 30 years.)
Our secondary objective was to trade off the old Honda before it vaporized beneath our feet. Imagine a hobbled jet fighter limping toward the deck of an aircraft carrier with one shot to either stick the landing or hit the ejection lever at the very last minute to blast clear while the plane disintegrates below him. I drove for three weeks with my hand nervously twitching on the ejection lever.
It’s not that the car was dangerous. Heck, in the right hands, it could become the bargain of a lifetime — those hands belonging to a skilled mechanic with an eye for excitement, plenty of spare time and a deep discount on replacement parts for an 18-year-old Honda.
This was not a journey for the faint of heart and longer than can be explained in one line. Come back next week for a ride-along!
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.