That’s 75 oil changes, and roughly 33.17 trips around the equatorial
circumference of the moon.
It’s eight roundtrips between Athens, Ohio and Charleston,
South Carolina down the West (by God) Virginia Turnpike, strafing semis while
peeling grapefruits in my lap. Plus three coastal roundtrips between San Diego
and Friday Harbor, cavorting with lively sea creatures en route. You know who
you are.
Built in Louisiana, shlepped to South Carolina, that old
Honda Accord had promise. She was as foreign in the land of rebel soldiers and
fire ants as I was: the California vegetarian with no family ties to “Old
South.”
Together we rolled up on klan rallies, ambushed president
Clinton in his pre-dawn run on Hilton Head beach and visited folk artists in
the backwoods of Georgia painting masterpieces on plywood. At the edge of
endless wooden pathways hovering over black water mazes, we memorized the songs
of cicadas on the marshes of the Low Country while massive grey cloud trains,
pregnant with lightening and punishing rains, dominated the humid Universe.
We witnessed the birth of cell phones, websites and digital
cameras. We walked a mile up hill both ways to school in Athens, Ohio while on
a Knight Fellowship with Kathleen Hennessy and Stan Alost, living across the street
from Miller’s Chicken, a factory of unknown offenses, while nurturing the
future of photojournalism at Friday night photo parties in our grandiose living
room. Ah, the late nights with Susanna Frohman and Penny De Los Santos in the
photo lab, windows wide open at 2 a.m., despite the snow, talking and talking
while dragging photos out of the fixer bath.
Conjuring the legacy of Robert Frank, we eventually headed
west, rolling deep into Missouri sunflower fields, reclining on garish red
cushions in the Jungle Room at Graceland before attempting to negotiate a truce
among Country, Christian and “south of the border” radio between buttes in the
Southwestern desert. With hopeful heart I was headed for the corroded metal
vaguery of the US-Mexico border of my youth: the intoxicating aroma of fresh
corn tortillas coaxing the day into being, the sounds of hand tools building a
life in the sandy soil with driftwood, chickens and ceaseless, perfect sunsets.
My Southern gal Honda was soon festooned with proclamations.
Less Bush, More Trees. Love Your Mother (planet Earth). Change Happens At The
Speed of Thought. Tofino Surf Shop. Liquid Fusion.
And the salt water took its
toll: munching around the edges of windows, rack braces, door frames.
Corrosion
debased a dent in the trunk forcing me to find a replacement trunk cover from a
pancaked auto in a San Ysidro junkyard, albeit slightly off-color and a
hairline narrower, therefore leaving a gap that forced me to empty the trunk of
camera gear and fill it with towels during rainstorms.
She carted me to backpacking trips in the Sierras, to Burning
Man, the Rockies and for wildlife adventures at the Salton Sea.
I feared she would slip into eternal sleep when it snowed at
Shakti Ma, but with help from the neighbor’s cats, snuggled overnight on the
hood, she would rise to the pre-dawn challenge and get me to the base of Stonewall Peak so I could make the first footsteps on a trail knee-deep with snow.
Of course there were oil leaks, busted hoses, belts
replaced, a new catalytic converter, windshield, tires, etc. But she had
personality. A one of a kind. I’m glad the transaction happened in the dark. No
telling what they did with her. Probably took her out back and put a bullet
through her radiator. I’m glad I wasn’t there to see it.
She would approve of the new ride: a two years old, charcoal
grey hybrid. And like every Prius in San Diego, the rack and SUP come standard.
We’ve got a road trip coming up. I have a feeling she’s not
a city gal.
