I met Gilda when she was already middle-aged.
Paul's friend Aaron
made an overnight stop in 2004 on his way to Houghton.
When we walked out to greet him,
my heart flopped.
His car looked like it was wearing a tuxedo and sneakers.
"I love your car," I said.
A few years later,
we made a donation to Aaron's move to Africa
and the brake-challenged car was mine.
It earned the name "Gilda"
on one of our first trips
when the clutch was pressed to the floor
and it stayed there,
after Gilda "It's always something!" Radner
of Saturday Night Live fame.
And it was always something.
Brakes.
Muffler.
Trim? Flapping.
Paint? Luckily the same color as the metal underneath.
Chipped windshield.
Ripped seats.
Inconsistent locks.
Gilda's axle apparently stumped NPR's Car Talk guys
as they never returned our call;
the axle replacement
made her odometer and speedometer inaccurate
so I drove at the speed of traffic
or my inner squirrel.
I can only estimate that she got 30+ mpg--
she was great at coasting down the mountain in neutral--
and had adventured over 300,000 miles.
During the Juniata Elementary years,
Gilda had a preferred spot at the Tannery Dam
where she dropped her mud
and showed off jokes
and political commentary--
often the same thing.
One boy said that she looked like an adventure car
and that was added to her name.
I printed it below the driver's window in Sharpie marker.
"Why not write on her some more?"
and she soon sported a variety of quotes
covering the spectrum
from the Irish blessing "May the road rise to meet you...."
to C.S. Lewis's "You don't have a soul.
You are a soul. You have a body."
to John Wayne's "Life is tough.
It's tougher if you're stupid."
Friends were occasionally invited to use the Sharpie;
our granddaughter Anna spent a summer hour
drawing her family
and writing Joshua 1:9
"The Lord your God will be with you wherever you go."
on Gilda's tailgate.
I often returned to find someone reading her.
Interesting conversations
started that way.
The boy pumping gas
thought "The woods are lovely, dark and deep,"
referred to a CSI episode.
He received a mini-lesson on Robert Frost
and a granola bar.
Gilda could take on all comers.
A student teacher bumped into her--
no worries.
A belligerent young redneck
once backed his enormous truck into her
and damaged his light and hitch--
not a scratch on Gilda.
Gilda hauled marsh marigolds and skunk cabbage,
bikes and chairs and Goodwill finds,
and every spring she would be packed
with hanging baskets and flats of seedlings.
Her regular cargo included tall rubber boots,
work overalls,
shovel and bucket,
markers and paint,
wire and clippers,
duct tape,
swimsuit,
granola bars and dog treats,
cement mix and water,
a kite....
She was always ready for an adventure.
Google Earth provided adventures.
I would look for back roads to travel.
What looked like a passable road on the computer
may have us in someone's driveway
or dodging huge mudholes
or stuck at a gate.
Gilda was not only a car.She also functioned as a workbench,
holding doors for varnishing
and tools for meat cutting.
She was a daily step stool
for cats descending
from high sleeping spots.
We would back out of the garage
in a blizzard of fur.
Gilda enjoyeddressing for the seasons,
jauntily wearing a fall leaf
under her non-functional
rear windshield wiper,
a flag for Veterans Day,
and in December
magnetic lights,
a wreath,
and a "got reindeer?" license plate.
Her front wipers functioned
but when shut off
they paused mid-windshield
like a dead beetle's wings.
Rainstorms made her seem normal
as the windshield wipers efficiently did their job,
but there was a trade-off:
every time she turned right
the water that had accumulated behind the dash
dripped on my leg.
It was OK.
Old friends are sometimes incontinent.
Though she once had a great stereo system,
in the end she was mute
leading me to a better prayer life,
thoughts to blog about,
and occasional yodeling forays.
We were thrilled when she recently passed inspection
and celebrated with new winter tires,
but in December
she began drinking too much oil
and leaked all over the floor nightly.
Two weeks ago,
Gilda the Ancient Volvo
fell prey to the economic Law Of Diminishing Returns
and now rests in peace in the woods.
Newt,
a friend who got ordained so he could marry us,
will come to transplant her seats and tires
and the good news is
there may be a friend-of-a-friend
who will bring her back to life.
The bad news is
she would be in Ohio.
Gilda started as a car
but ended as an enabler.
She made
friends of strangers
and prodded me to be more creative,
to ponder philosophy,
and to take the road less traveled by.
I am guilty
of feeling sadder at the loss of Gilda the Adventure Car
than some human tragedies.
Forgive me.
She was my friend.
