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A death in the family is always tragic. It's even worse when it happens to one who was always full of life, bringing joy and delight by its very presence--and to go so suddenly, overnight.
On Wednesday my little red Mustang convertible brought me home as the sun set after a successful tennis match. On Thursday morning it was sickly but managed to get me to work. On the way back home it belched great clouds of white smoke, dripped anti-freeze and smelled of scorched metal. On Friday it was declared dead, having literally blown a head gasket, which pretty much requires a new engine, I'm told.
[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]
On Tuesday I stopped at the repair shop to clean out my clothes, tools and candy bar wrappers, and remove the license plate. I sniffled as I thanked it for 10 years and 64,137 miles of pleasure, and described the next phase of its life: being rebuilt by the boys at Rawhide where I am donating it. (Imagine how excited they'll be to work on a red convertible rather than a grey four-door sedan!)
'Don't give a damn' stage
I bought it in May of 1997, to celebrate my 53rd birthday. I remember debating whether I deserved to splurge on such a wonderful car. It was just before Liz's first year in college; she was pretty excited too, since it replaced a brown 1988 Toyota Corolla wagon with body damage.
It was a great car, beautiful to look at and exciting to drive. It attracted stares from strangers, and more than once a hunk told me, "Nice car." It put a smile on my face just to see it when I came out of the house or the office. I built a brand new garage to stable it properly.