thoughts on the 240D

My first awareness of riding in a car happened in my parents’ 240D Mercedes. It had a cream exterior, and a brown leather interior – the kind that always burned your butt and legs after swimming lessons during brutal Chico summers. But most of all, I remember the sound of that car: a low rumbling engine sputter that signaled the countdown to Mom coming home. It meant that we could finally build forts with the couch cushions. The babysitters were always worried about us tearing up the house, but any and all creativity got an endorsement from Mom.

That low rumble also meant is was either time for dinner, or, if my Father was home, it was time to kick off our shoes and slide across slick, polished wood floors with our “boogie shoes”…a.k.a. our socks. The big treat would be eating dinner at the kitchen table instead of the dining room so we could turn the T.V. to watch M.A.S.H. It also meant we could sit down for dinner without first having to find three places on the globe and naming three state capitals without looking. But the ultimate treat was a spontaneous trip to Swenson’s Ice Cream Parlor. We usually got bubble gum; sometimes we got mint chip. Dad always got Wild Mountain Blackberry. We’d try and run through the big fountain with our ice cream but that never lasted long. Running on slick cement meant trouble.

My first memory of a lightening storm is tied to that Mercedes. It was one of those perfect nights when Dad suggested Swenson’s but I was scared to go in the storm. Dad pulled me up on his lap and promised me that the car was one of the safest places to be during lightening; the tires grounded the electric charge of a lightening bolt. That was all I needed to hear.

But every silver lining has a cloud, and my first cloud was going to see my dying Great Grandmother at the hospital, in our car. I don’t remember her speaking, really. I remember yellow. Most of all I remember that my Mother always filled our pockets with Three Musketeers bars to give Great Grandma. “They’re her favorite.” If only the whole world ran on three musketeers bars! I remember being scared of her in the bed as I snuck her those candy bars. For some reason I don’t remember her before the hospital, though I know she knew me. I’ve seen us together in pictures.

The hospital visits always ended awkwardly as far as I could tell, and then we headed to my grandmother’s house to console her. She is so strong but the less I see her, the more I realize how fragile she’s become. I always hesitate to leave but I’ve got places to go and people to see. I don’t remember leaving the condo, but shortly thereafter we pulled out of a parking space and took a turn for the worst, literally, right into the bumper of an oncoming car.

Of course we were going maybe 2 miles an hour and no damage was done to the 240D. After that moment, I always felt safe in the Mercedes. When my mom told me we were selling the Mercedes, I told her I would go with it. She declined, I protested, and ultimately forgot about the car I loved – at least vocally. Yet, there’s not a 240D that rumbles by that I don’t think perhaps that’s my Mercedes.

The weirdest twist to this chapter is that I learned of my great Grandmother’s death in the 240D as well. We were backing out of the driveway and my Mom stopped the car to tell us that great Grandma Birdie was gone and wasn’t coming back. I don’t remember if I understood. I do remember I was sitting Lucky Cosette in the middle of the back seat. And I realize that still at this point in my life when I’m confronted with overwhelming emotions, I tend to concentrate on the minor details like the number of tiles on the floor or the symmetry of the designs on the ceiling. The accumulation of loss is maturity and it seems right a child should naturally resist its worldly baptism into adulthood– at least for a while. Leonard Cohen got it right: no one aches in the places they play.