Wednesday, January 2, 2019

Goodbye, Dear Old

Hwy 380 outside Carrizozo, New Mexico - Valley of Fire vista. October 2012.

Last week, it came time to say goodbye to a stalwart friend. 

Being rootless and, therefore, a minimalist by necessity, I don't have a lot of stuff. And I don't think I have much emotional attachment to the bulk of the stuff I do have. There are exceptions, however, due to sentimental memories associated with an item, or by the longevity of our relationship.

Here, I said goodbye to a crossover bag that had accompanied me to so many festivals and travels.

My "festival" bag.

Here, I said goodbye to an airbed. To my accumulation of Mardi Gras beads. To my cherished, red chairbed.

My red chairbed in New Mexico and Louisiana.

Here I said goodbye to my Nokia brick phone (and its symbolic content of human connections, literal and figurative) given to me in Caucasus Georgia.

My Nokia "brick" in Caucasus Georgia. 2011-2012.

But today my goodbye is big. Really, really big. 

I've had to say goodbye to my car, my 1995 Toyota Camry.

The car I bought when it was already more than 10 years old. The car I bought when I lived a whole different life than I do now, a rooted one, when I had a:
  • Mate;
  • House; and a
  • "Regular" job. 
I bought the car with a little more than 80,000 miles on it. I'm releasing it with more than 240,000 miles on the odometer.

It was a comfortable car. Because it was an older vehicle, I had no worries about someone singling it out for nefarious doings. I loved all things about this car except for three - the:
  • Stingy cupholder that was far too particular about what it allowed in its space;
  • Low ground clearance, which made it not-so-handy on uneven roads (well, sort of roads); and
  • Expensive sensitivity of the driver's side door handle. (I think I bought THREE replacements.)

I saw the world in its side mirror.

Sunset view from my side mirror, I-10 from Texas to Louisiana. September 2017.

 And through the rear mirror.

View of Monument Valley through my rear window. November 2008.

  • I ate breakfast, lunch, or dinners in it. I snacked in it.
  • I spilled stuff in it. 

  • I slept in it.
  • I camped with it.
  • I got lost in it.
  • I found my way in it.

  • I meditated in it, solved all of the world's problems in it, imagined futures in it, re-imagined pasts in it. 
  • I sang in it, swore vile epithets in it, cried in it, laughed in it, worried in it, yelled at the universe in it, and asked it questions it could not answer.

  • I parked in it, crept in it, sped in it.

  • I laughed with others in it, argued with others in it, and enjoyed companionable silences with others in it.

  • I saw suns rise and suns set in it.

  • I saw innumerable dead creatures on the roads from it.

  • I drove by hundreds of past death scenes in it, memorialized by descansos, crosses, signs, flowers.

I loaded, unloaded, loaded, unloaded, loaded, and unloaded the Camry.

My car packed for year in El Paso. August 2016.

My car packed for year in El Paso. August 2016.

Goodbye, dear old.

A slide show:

In Memorium to A Car

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