My car only takes 93 gas. From the Mobil. Not that you have to fill it up or anything, but in case you do, it has to be 93 gas. From the Mobil.
It was April, 2012. I was four months pregnant when I got rear-ended and begged to borrow Ma's car for a few days. She wasn't jazzed about the notion because it broke one of her Life's Rules, cataloged under Tape Number 39: Never drive anyone else's car. God Forbid you get into an accident. God Forbid you get into an accident driving someone else's car. What a pain in the ass.
Sitting in the driver's seat, checking my mirrors and adjusting the seat for my longer legs, I can recall thinking: I've never driven this Bad Boy before. How funny, because that "Bad Boy" of a car was a 2005 Volvo. Hardly as badass as the zippy Acura I was paying exorbitant payments on at the time. But I liked it. It belonged to my Ma. I was going to be a Mom. Seemed like a natural fit. The Volvo, although older than the Acura, made me feel like my "Mom Card" had been punched for the first time. "First a Volvo... then what? Skechers shoes?" I remember thinking as I backed out of the drive. She shouted to me from the garage, "My car only takes 93 gas. From the Mobil. Not that you have to fill it up or anything, but in case you do, it has to be 93 gas. From the Mobil."
...
Tossing the key onto the kitchen table, I told her "I really like driving that thing." Ironically enough, two short months later, "that thing" would be mine. Because Life can never be as easy as your hand out the window in the wind.
Once Ma was gone, I sold the Acura, bought the Volvo for the bargain price of $1, and have been happily driving it ever since. Dad and I liked the notion that GeeGee's car would be taking her grandchildren to doctor's appointments or to baseball practices. I still even keep a bookmark stuck into the dash that reads, "We are so very proud of you," in Ma's handwriting, of course. Nice to see that reminder every day.
The Volvo has taken me (and her Grandchildren) 46,000 since June of 2012, just days after she was gone. My goal was to see the odometer at 65,000 miles before trading that Bad Boy in... I'm just short of that, and that is okay. My emotional attachment to this car is irrational at best, and I know it. In my mind, that car was one last connection to my Ma, and each day I drive it, it's one day further from last seeing her... but, depending on what you believe, it's one day closer to seeing her again. In the meantime, though, I always look for the "signs" she isn't really that far away after all.
On Saturday, after a particularly uncomfortable "Car Dealer Hostage Situation," (an entirely different blog post that just has to be written) I just wanted to get back to the kids for hugs and love. Almost home, I was greeted by a "sign"... A Cardinal, casually sitting in the middle of the road, unfazed by the approaching Volvo. After a few seconds, that bird flew north, probably to Wisconsin. Ma loved Wisconsin.
...
Today, I met a dealer named Jimmy H. and he loved the Cubs. Good signs. I finally picked out a car, and will take delivery in a couple of days. When I asked Maddy earlier what color car I should get, she told me "Blue. So it'll match my eyes"... GeeGee's too, baby girl. GeeGee's too. Blue it is.
If you happen to hear about a woman who had to be pried away from her ridiculously old, trade-in car, that's probably me. But, I will try to compose myself and recall her sage advice: Tape Number 20- crying makes you tired. Crying does nothing but make your face puffy and tired and then you’re all cried out and you’re thirsty. Stop crying.
I will say my goodbyes and be sure to make this car my very own. First order of business: finding the perfect spot for my bookmark. After all, it will be nice to be reminded of how proud she is of me, while out shopping for a new pair of Skechers, or even just while filling up with gas.
Although this car doesn't take 93. And that's okay.
