EDITOR’s NOTE: This isn’t a typical Driving Today vehicle review. The following article is based on a recent Facebook post I made that seemed to resonate with a lot of people, so I decided to share it here. Anyone who has ever thought of the car as more than transportation can likely relate.
We all know that our cars are inanimate objects. They don’t have feelings; they don’t tell us things, and they don’t love us. Yes, we know that intellectually, don’t we? But then, that doesn’t mean we can’t love them.
This week, we said a very fond and heartfelt goodbye to a 1998 Ford Explorer XLT that has been in the family since my father-in-law, Jerry, purchased it. It was new well before the turn of the last millennium. When he retired and then had no use for a vehicle, he passed it on to us just as our middle daughter, Emma, was turning 16 and getting her driver’s license. And that’s when the red 1998 Explorer became Clifford, in honor of the big red dog of the same name.
Clifford immediately was pushed into service as Emma’s transport to and from high school. And when our youngest daughter, Greta, graduated from middle school, the two sisters carpooled in Clifford every day. They didn’t go very far each time but far enough to gain a new appreciation for each other and a strong love for Clifford.
Two years later, Emma went off to college, and Greta inherited Clifford as her personal vehicle, although she shared him with Emma when she came back into town on school breaks and vacations. Then, all too fast, Greta was off to college, too, and she took Clifford with her up to Central California. That’s where she and her many college friends developed an even deeper appreciation for the big red Explorer with the bad paint and ever-willing heart.
When Greta spent the better part of the last year in Denmark as part of her studies, Clifford, of course, stayed behind. He spent those months on the south side of our driveway or in front of our picket fence as I tried — vainly, it turned out — to drive him often enough to keep his battery charged, his fluids flowing and the cobwebs from building too intricately on his exterior mirrors.
Our brains tell us that Clifford did not miss Greta, or her sister, Emma, or her other sister, Maddie, as those months dragged by. How could he? Because he is not a he, but an it — a collection of metal, glass, rubber and wires. Nothing remarkable. In fact, the most remarkable thing about him is how unremarkable he is. Except to them. Because he was theirs. And their absences took their toll on the big red Explorer.
Over the past year, issues arose, potential unreliability loomed, and so we decided that when Greta returned to class this fall it would be in a new (at least newer) vehicle.
As we had received Clifford as a gift, so we would make him a gift to others. We decided to donate him to MissionCars.com, a San Luis Obispo-based charity that uses the proceeds from vehicle sales to help inmates in California state prisons train service dogs for veterans afflicted with PTSD. The fact it is run by a friend and former business partner of my father-in-law gave it all a nice symmetry.
The donation was planned for late Spring, but somehow, Clifford managed to stay with us through most of the summer. Apparently not wanting to leave, he refused to start throughout the month of August, and it was not until last weekend that he was ready to go on his next adventure.
After driving him on a freeway loop in the South Bay to get his battery properly charged, I washed him at his spot in our driveway, trying to make his heavily sun-oxidized paint look as fresh as possible. Then, midweek, Sandi, our dog, Austin, and I embarked on the trek to SLO so Greta could get one last moment behind Clifford’s wheel, so she could tell him how much she appreciated what he had done for her. And how much she loved him.
We fought back tears as she kissed and hugged him goodbye. From there, a short drive down the 101 got us to Mission Cars. I parked Clifford out front and started transferring my gear from him into our waiting Ford Ranger. Mission Cars’ Mike Schmidt came out to meet us and, with Clifford waiting dutifully for us outside, we signed the paperwork that transferred him from our service to the service of the charity, and then, we pray, to the service of a family who will love him as much as we do.
Back outside, I patted him affectionately on the flank one last time. Then, as I was getting into the Ranger’s driver’s seat, Sandi asked if I wanted to rescue the pine tree air freshener that was hanging from Clifford’s rearview mirror. I got out, retrieved it and climbed back into the brand-new Ford truck. A memento for Greta.
As we drove off I couldn’t help wondering if I could faintly hear Clifford cry out softly, “Hey, wait! Don’t forget about me.”
But we know that cars are inanimate objects and can’t talk, now, don’t we?
No matter. What I can assure him, just as I assure you, is we won’t forget about you, Clifford. No, never will we forget about you.
To those who don’t know, cars, trucks and SUVs are assemblages of steel, aluminum, rubber and glass. And to them, that’s what that old Explorer is.
But to us, he is Clifford, a faithful friend. Like us, he isn’t perfect, but he never let us down.
Thank you, Clifford. May you serve your next family as dutifully as you served ours. Goodbye and Godspeed to you, my friend. No, we will not forget about you, a blessing to our family.
