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You’re My Boy, Blue

You’re My Boy, Blue

It is with a heavy heart and the deep resignation within my soul that I do hereby announce that my 1994 navy blue Honda Civic LX (a.k.a. Blue Diamond) has been put to its final resting place. That place being the hands of an auto repairman named Fernando who paid me $500.

I adopted “Blue” when he was three years old. He’d already had two different sets of parents. But we were destined for each other. I’d decided to move to California and needed wheels to get there. My dad’s co-worker needed to sell Blue as she had gotten a good deal on a more expensive car. I gladly bought Blue and the rest as they say, and I’m about to write, is history.

Blue delivered me from my apartment in the Wrigleyville neighborhood of Chicago, through the Midwestern plains, the Southwest’s desert mountains, and onto the Los Angeles freeways, packed full of my possessions, my hopes, and fast food wrappers.

In the years since, Blue and I have had more ups and downs than the shocks on a monster truck. At times, I felt his temper tantrums inconvenient, but I realize now he was just asking for help so that he could keep serving me. I wasn’t always the best owner, but I was persistent in my efforts of taking care of him (Regular tune-ups, oil changes, and washings…some with wax!) In return, Blue took care of me with the unenviable task of traversing the highways and side streets of LA as I went to jobs, ran errands, and drag-raced for extra cash. (Okay, once…and it was for a chocolate shake. But we won, good buddy!)

I see a lot of Blue in me. We both came to LA in much the same condition: Young, clean, engine-revving with a full tank of gas. Now, as the years have passed, we’ve got a few more wrinkles, not quite as much gas in the tank, and we emit a funny smell when we get heated up.

But Blue, that just shows we were living right. And even though I may have treated you a bit recklessly sometimes—and contrary to your appearance at the end—I never intentionally hurt you. I’m grateful for all that you’ve done for me. You were the transport for my adventurous soul.

As I look into our rearview mirror, I see all the great times. The last minute trips to Vegas, San Francisco, and San Diego. You got me there faster and cheaper than any airline could have, with no security lines, and better music.

I remember the ocean breeze blowing through my hair and your four windows along the Pacific Coast Highway. We had some great women in that passenger seat, didn’t we? What happens in the Civic stays in the Civic, right buddy?

But mostly, like most fine things in life, you were at your best when I didn’t notice you. This made it easy to take you for granted sometimes. But I don’t anymore. We had a great ride together, Blue.

Even at the end, we went out like we should. Sure, I could’ve had you towed in to the shop, but I waved off the AAA tow, much like the injured football player waves off the stretcher, and I drove you to the station myself—street legal or not. It’s what you deserved.

I admit I felt a bit guilty, letting you go for such a small price—you’re worth infinitely more than that. But since when does money determine the real value of something anyhow?

I take comfort in knowing you went out like you should, like we all should—with your vision failing, your odometer stretched, and your gas tank on empty.

We lasted a long time together, more than most. Now, it’s time, my buddy. Ease the seat back, put on the cruise control, and turn up the radio. No more blind spots, no more speed limits, just the open road ahead.

You shine on, Blue Diamond, you shine on.

 

 

 

 

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