Thanks for Sharing the Ride of Life

I have always thought it my destiny to own a Lincoln. Car, that is. Yet it never quite seemed to work out for me.

It did work out for my sister Anna Mae, my mother’s only daughter. She once bought a beautiful four door Lincoln sedan that had belonged to a judge. I don’t remember the model, but I can see that car in my mind. It had a steel blue exterior, dark blue leather interior, and looked practically brand new. It had an electronic dash and air shocks.

Anna Mae needed a co-signer to purchase the car, and she came to baby brother for help. Anna Mae had all throughout my childhood been my “go-to” girl. Anything I wanted she tried to find for me—I remember wanting a sheriff’s badge very badly, and Anna Mae found one for me. I remember wanting a pencil sharpener like the ones they had in school, and low and behold, she found that for me, also. I still have that pencil sharpener in my home library. The blades have never been sharpened, and after four decades it still sharpens pencils to a point that can bring blood.

They say we’re supposed to give gifts to others that we would like to have for ourselves. The Lincoln was not exactly a gift—Anna Mae made every payment on it—but I co-signed for my dear sister to purchase the Lincoln. It almost broke my heart, because there is nothing I would have liked better than to have pulled that Lincoln into my own driveway and called it my own.

In my world of car ownership, I went from a two door 1967 Chevrolet Impala (outstanding car) to a four door Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra (worst car I ever owned). Next I owned a black four door Buick Skylark with a red velvet interior and an electronic dash (excellent car), then I leased a metallic green Saturn with tan leather seats.

The Saturn was, in my opinion, perhaps the greatest car General Motors had ever produced at the time I leased mine. It was a sad day for me when I learned that no more Saturn automobiles would be manufactured. Unfortunately, in May 1998 I was involved in an automobile accident which totaled my leased green Saturn. I can attest that Saturns were safe cars, for mine turned upside down in the middle of Dry Gap Pike and I walked away without a scratch.

As I was uninjured, the accident actually saved me a great deal of money. At the end of the lease, I would either have had to purchase the car for full book value at the termination of the lease or have leased another car, either prospect a costly endeavor. I learned from my only episode of leasing a car that this is not the route for a person who likes to squeeze every dime of utility from a vehicle to pursue. I purchase cars, new or used, and drive them almost until the duct tape can no longer hold the rusted bolts together.

So there I lay, on my couch during the latter days of May and early June, 1998, bemoaning the loss of my Saturn and contemplating the other outcomes that could have resulted from the wreck. I could have died in the crash. Had I not been wearing a seat belt, I might have crushed my neck into my spine when the car turned on its top and have been permanently paralyzed. I might not have been injured at all, and even though the wreck was not my fault, the crash could have resulted in someone else’s irreversible injury or death.

But life must go on. Finally, I roused myself from the couch and determined that I must use my insurance to rent another car.

By this time, my sister Anna Mae had another car, though she still owned the Lincoln. The Lincoln had seen its better days by then, however. My sister lived in an apartment on a hill, and the landlord did not waste his rent collections in maintaining the driveway. A huge gully washed between the road and her driveway, and driving across this ditch repeatedly caused the air shocks to puncture.

Nevertheless, I borrowed the Lincoln and got my good friend Mark Martin (God rest his saintly soul) to go with me to pick up the rental on Clinton Highway. I kid you not, that Lincoln at this time had not one smidgen of shock absorption. The smallest bump in the road was magnified at least a hundred, seemingly thousands of times.

We did pretty well going down Maynardville Highway and Broadway, though the car was riding low and swayed quite a bit. Mr. Martin said it was a good thing we weren’t going down on Magnolia, for surely the police would mistake us for drug dealers and haul us in!

Then the fun started. We turned onto Cedar Lane. Cedar Lane at this time was in major need of repaving. Even in the newest model car with the latest shock absorbers Cedar Lane was a rough ride. The first chug hole I hit bounced that heavy car like a ping pong ball. Mr. Martin screamed an oath as our heads made contact with the roof of the car and our teeth were slammed together. This ride was reminiscent of the old westerns in which wranglers rode bucking broncs to break them to saddle. That old car was not now to be broken in, it was already broken down, and no one was ever going to have a smooth ride in it again. It seemed to make no difference how slowly I drove, the effect was the same. Mr. Martin seemed to come to a more intimate knowledge of his Lord and Savior as we progressed toward Clinton Highway, though perhaps not in the way the Almighty would have chosen.

Finally we made it to the rental place on Clinton Highway, and poor Mr. Martin had to drive that old Lincoln back to Anna Mae’s. I followed him, just to make sure that he was not ejected on the way. It was almost funnier to watch the car bounce and sway from behind as it was to be jostled to death in its interior. It seemed to take Mr. Martin a couple of minutes after he parked the car to get his land legs back. To him the ride must have seemed like simultaneously being completely drunk and stone cold sober, able to remember such a harrowing experience with painful clarity.

Sometimes I long for a similar experience with a good friend, but some things can only be imitated, never replicated, like Willie Nelson’s voice. Mr. Martin has gone to his great home in the sky, whose golden streets are free of potholes and where shock absorbers are never needed. Though it has been five years since his departure, he lives in my memory as if he is still right beside me. As the world of my email recently told me,

Southern guys know tractors and cars may come and go,
but friends are fah-evah !