by Pa Rock
Road Warrior
I drive a used car - a 2005 Saturn Vue that was already seven-years-old when I bought it after returning stateside from Okinawa in 2012. The odometer is still on the south side of 200,000 miles, barely, yet the boxy grey vehicle, which was once at home in Alaska, has taken me from Arizona to Missouri (laden down like it was part of the Jed Clampett Moving Company), out to Oregon, east to Indianapolis, and on numerous trips across the Ozarks as well as to and from Kansas City. It has transported chickens, guineas, peacocks, geese, and even a goat, as well as bales of straw, bags of manure, and all manner of bagged seeds and grain.
I bought the car because it ran well, with lots of power when I needed it, was comfortable, and had a good radio. The heated front seats were a luxury that Rosie and I also soon learned to enjoy.
Because I always buy used cars, my first rule in moving to a new community is to find a good mechanic - a priority ahead of even finding the right doctor. While others spend their time writing car payment checks each month, Pa Rock must occasionally pay the mechanic for maintenance or some unexpected repair to his family flivver. Those scattered payments are always far less than the regular paying of principal and interest for the privilege of telling people that I "own" a new car.
When Pa Rock owns a car, he really "owns" a car. The piper gets paid once, and then he has to go sit on the curb and await the inevitable wreck or wearing out of Pa Rock's Folly. But now, alas, that time may be drawing near.
There were signs that things might be about to happen. Last week my trusted mechanic of nearly five years sent me a Christmas card, something I don't remember happening in past years. And in the same day's mail I received a very thorough form letter from my bank talking about its wonderful car loans. (I'm not sure that I have ever had a car loan in my life, and certainly none with this particular bank.)
Then, of course, my car broke down. Saturday morning I found a trail of fluid leaking along the passenger side. When I attempted to drive it into town (a trip of two miles), it began tugging and stalling - and the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. I managed to get the car home, and yesterday I sent it to the mechanic on a tow truck. After loading the car, the tow truck operator eyed it over carefully and then handed me not one, but two, of his business cards. The fellow seemed to know that if I hung onto this particular vehicle, I would soon be in the market for more tows.
So now I am sitting by the phone waiting on the mechanic to call with the bad news. I may finally succumb to the inevitable and buy a newer used car - or I may struggle along with what I have. Even the worst case scenario - a new engine or transmission - would still not equal more than two or three car payments on a new vehicle.
Cheap ain't glamorous, but it will usually get you to town and back.
Road Warrior
I drive a used car - a 2005 Saturn Vue that was already seven-years-old when I bought it after returning stateside from Okinawa in 2012. The odometer is still on the south side of 200,000 miles, barely, yet the boxy grey vehicle, which was once at home in Alaska, has taken me from Arizona to Missouri (laden down like it was part of the Jed Clampett Moving Company), out to Oregon, east to Indianapolis, and on numerous trips across the Ozarks as well as to and from Kansas City. It has transported chickens, guineas, peacocks, geese, and even a goat, as well as bales of straw, bags of manure, and all manner of bagged seeds and grain.
I bought the car because it ran well, with lots of power when I needed it, was comfortable, and had a good radio. The heated front seats were a luxury that Rosie and I also soon learned to enjoy.
Because I always buy used cars, my first rule in moving to a new community is to find a good mechanic - a priority ahead of even finding the right doctor. While others spend their time writing car payment checks each month, Pa Rock must occasionally pay the mechanic for maintenance or some unexpected repair to his family flivver. Those scattered payments are always far less than the regular paying of principal and interest for the privilege of telling people that I "own" a new car.
When Pa Rock owns a car, he really "owns" a car. The piper gets paid once, and then he has to go sit on the curb and await the inevitable wreck or wearing out of Pa Rock's Folly. But now, alas, that time may be drawing near.
There were signs that things might be about to happen. Last week my trusted mechanic of nearly five years sent me a Christmas card, something I don't remember happening in past years. And in the same day's mail I received a very thorough form letter from my bank talking about its wonderful car loans. (I'm not sure that I have ever had a car loan in my life, and certainly none with this particular bank.)
Then, of course, my car broke down. Saturday morning I found a trail of fluid leaking along the passenger side. When I attempted to drive it into town (a trip of two miles), it began tugging and stalling - and the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. I managed to get the car home, and yesterday I sent it to the mechanic on a tow truck. After loading the car, the tow truck operator eyed it over carefully and then handed me not one, but two, of his business cards. The fellow seemed to know that if I hung onto this particular vehicle, I would soon be in the market for more tows.
So now I am sitting by the phone waiting on the mechanic to call with the bad news. I may finally succumb to the inevitable and buy a newer used car - or I may struggle along with what I have. Even the worst case scenario - a new engine or transmission - would still not equal more than two or three car payments on a new vehicle.
Cheap ain't glamorous, but it will usually get you to town and back.
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