Having an attachment to an inanimate object gives me pause, but I have such an attachment nonetheless.
See, we’ve finally given the family transport vehicle, a 1994 black Suburban, otherwise known as the Beast, its walking papers. With one child in college and another soon to follow, we no longer have the need to cart six people around. This, oddly enough, has made me sad.
The Beast was quite the rig in its day. I distinctly remember being impressed with the two-zone heating system, noting that it wasn’t until my third move that I had such a feature in my house. Alas, the new features out there seem to have eclipsed the Beast.
There’s no DVD player for long drives, meaning that the annual, 400 mile trek to Mt. Ste. Anne in Quebec would quickly try the patience of the driver as children stuffed in against food boxes would tire of staring out at the flat, barren fields shortly after getting over the border.
We attempted to solve the problem with a portable TV/VCR combination that sat on the console between the driver and front passenger seat. It was great for the children, but the speaker on the television was on the rear left of the set, meaning it was loudest for the individual who wanted to listen to it the least.
This configuration likely shaved a few points off my license. One year, I distinctly remember coming up over a rise on 93 shortly after getting on it from 91 in St. Johnsbury and casually passing a trooper going 90 MPH or so, then simply pulling over to deny said trooper the thrill of the chase. My wife was certain I was a dead man, as was I.
The trooper sidled up to the car and looked in to three pre-teen boys at attention and a three-year-old girl with tears running down her cheeks. The Trooper asked how fast I was going, and I managed to give him an estimate that was five miles in excess of what he had clocked me at on his radar, causing him to compliment me on my reaction time.
He then asked me if there was a reason for being in such a hurry. I am not sure what look I had on my face, but what I was thinking is not printable. I managed to maintain my civility and said, “Well, we are coming from Quebec and are about halfway home. We had to pry my daughter out of the McDonald’s fun house kicking and screaming about 10 miles back and, frankly officer,” I said, tapping the TV/VCR that was my perpetual arm rest, “You can only listen to Thomas the Tank Engine on continuous loop for so long, you know?”
It got me off with a warning and a stern admonishment from the officer to my now subdued daughter to be a good girl for daddy. She didn’t listen to him, but I did use the moment as a chance to lecture my boys on the need to be respectful, honest, and truthful when dealing with police officers.
Another classic moment came years later when said behemoth had been put into semi-retirement. Six of us were coming back from visiting my brother’s family on Martha’s Vineyard. I was eager to start making tracks after shuffling through the hassle of getting off the island.
A son informed me he didn’t feel well. When I asked how bad, my niece, who was in the front seat, turned to look at him and said, “Ewww, open the window, buddy,” whereupon my child emptied the contents of his stomach on the highway at about 80 miles an hour. Or, more to the point, emptied it on the side of the car, covering about 8 feet of sheet metal and glass. Seems he had become sea sick on the ferry and the gentle swaying of an overloaded Suburban incapable of hugging the turns did him in.
Past chaotic trips had ground me down. All I did this time was calmly pull off the side of the highway, see if my son needed any more assistance coughing up his stomach, and then looked at the side of the car, started laughing hysterically, took a picture of the car, and carried on.
There were many short jaunts packed with presents or food for family gatherings. The excitement generally meant there were numerous eruptions in the car, with many coming from me being stuck in traffic. The line “I hate cities” is now a family joke based on the number of times I uttered it snaking through Boston on Thanksgiving Eve to reach my sister’s. The excitement of getting to the destination generally meant all hell broke loose inside the car about ten minutes out. It never failed.
There were also many trips with equipment bags for baseball, football, or lacrosse games. The old girl was also very deft at hauling a horse trailer through New England, which necessitated replacing leaf springs a few years back, making her ride like a new car again. We never had a flat or had to call AAA, prompting us to cancel our membership two months before the car that was, as we called it, the Life Support System for the Suburban decided to die.
The Beast could probably be converted into a rolling McDonald’s Happy Meal Toy Museum based on the number of on-the-fly meals consumed in the back of it. The upholstery’s original color is oftentimes barely discernible from the wear and tear it took over the years.
The past few times we’ve all climbed into it, we have recounted various recollections of this or that event that took place in the car over the years.
So the old Suburban is for sale. There’s not a lot of demand for a reliable gas guzzler with 145,000 miles on it. To others it’s likely not worth more than a few thousand dollars, but the memories that came from it are priceless to me.