MAN ABOUT TOWN: Goodbye, Big Blue–We Knew You Well

This is not a story about buying a new car, even though that’s what I did last Friday. Readers of Man About Town might be surprised about that, given my penchant for walking and last week’s story about riding my bike to New Jersey. But even the Man About Town is susceptible to the hysteria surrounding the government’s Cash for Clunkers program. I couldn’t resist.

I didn’t want a new car just yet because our current “clunker” – a minivan by the name of Big Blue — ran fine. The idea was to wait until it died. And besides, Big Blue was a member of the family. We bought it new in 1993 when our youngest daughter was not quite 3. Now she’s in college.

On Friday morning after we cleared out various stuff like maps, a phone charger, ice scraper, etc. from Big Blue, my wife’s voice suddenly became husky. I know that tell-tale sign – next come the tears. What had I done or said this time? Choking up, she said, “We’ve got a lot of memories with Big Blue.”

Memories. Wow – and how. Good and bad. Big Blue accompanied us to Brussels, where we lived a couple of years, and explored Europe. One year when the older children flew over for Christmas we all set off for Paris in Big Blue. Somehow we ended up driving straight through the middle of Paris to the Isle de France where we had hotel reservations. Amazingly, the hotel had a parking garage (there is no parking in Isle de France, the oldest section of Paris). At the reception desk I was handed a remote control for a garage door. Trouble was, the garage door was on the side of the hotel, accessed by a miniature alley with a stone wall, all designed for tiny French cars, not a “Grand” Caravan. The only way I could imagine making a 90-degree turn into the garage would be to jack up the rear of the car, put rollers under the tires, and push sideways. But somehow – I’ll never know how – Big Blue rose to the task and with much to-ing and fro-ing, made the 90-degree turn in a width hardly wider than the car itself. Entering the garage, I found myself and Big Blue in an elevator, which took us to the basement parking. (No room for even a ramp.)

A less pleasant Brussels memory came exactly a week after 9/11. My wife had just picked up our daughter from horseback lessons, only to have a blowout on a busy highway. This was the only time Big Blue left anyone stranded. Eventually the Belgian AA arrived and changed the tire, and wife and daughter arrived home more than an hour later than planned. Heading upstairs to her bedroom, our daughter suddenly felt that something was not right. Things were strewn everywhere. A burglar had been in the house for a long time, meticulously picking over all our possessions, choosing only the smallest and most valuable. He left just before they got home. Without the tire blowout . . . suffice it to say that our daughter’s school friend and family down the street were held at gunpoint by a burglar shortly thereafter.

 When our middle daughter arrived at George Mason High School as a junior, she declared that after she got her license she would not be seen dead driving Big Blue. (How did minivans become so un-cool? In the hippie era a van was the coolest set of wheels you could have.) Well, daughter #2 was correct – she was never seen dead driving Big Blue, but for more than a year she transported herself and friends in Big Blue, all very much alive.

Big Blue took some hits over the years. Back when we lived in Lake Barcroft, another, then-16-year-old daughter got a job at the IHOP at Route 50 and Annandale. She drove there via Holmes Run Road, where “traffic calming” 4-way stop signs had just been installed at every intersection. She dutifully stopped at each sign and then proceeded. The trouble came at the end of Holmes Road and South Street, where Holmes Road has a stop sign but South Street does not. She stopped and then proceeded, unfortunately in the path of a car barreling down South Street. Fortunately, the only injury was incurred by Big Blue, who required several weeks’ convalescence at a body shop. And when the police officer saw the skid marks left by the speeding car in a 25 mph zone she didn’t even charge our daughter.

After we moved to Falls Church, and Big Blue was reunited with us after a trip by slow boat, my wife, daughter, and Big Blue were all minding their own business in the left-turn lane on Dolly Madison, waiting at the red light to turn onto Great Falls. An SUV coming up behind them didn’t even slow down before plowing into Big Blue. Again, no one but Big Blue (and its attacker) was injured, but I did learn that insurance coverage doesn’t supply new parts for old cars, even when it’s the other guy’s fault. The junkyard lift gate transplanted onto Big Blue by the body shop never closed as well as the “old” one, and the rear wiper soon failed.

So Big Blue was not only a family friend but a hero. Shouldn’t it have received a proper farewell, or at least a fitting burial? The engine ran perfectly, never failing to start. But under the “Cash for Clunkers” requirements, the dealer is required to destroy the engine by draining the oil, replacing it with ”liquid glass” and running the engine until it experiences a seizure. My guilt increased as I waited at the City Hall DMV Select office, where someone mentioned that many mechanics were refusing to perform the procedure. They just couldn’t bear to destroy perfectly good machinery. So dealers were designating a single mechanic to do the dirty work. Every town can always find at least one executioner.

At least, we thought, one person would be happy – our daughter who swore never to be seen dead in Big Blue. We kept it a surprise. When she came home from work there was a shiny new car in our parking space.

“Did you buy a new car?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you’re going to sell Big Blue?”

“Big Blue is gone.”

“Gone? But — but I didn’t even get to say goodbye!”