That was the car that B drove when he picked me up for our first date. In college we rear-ended three different vehicles in one week. (Betcha can't guess who was driving.) That car's been through two windshields, at least two bumpers and more brakes that I care to think about. It was hit by a FedEx truck. And was subjected to innumerable parking tickets and countless traffic violations. It's acted as a getaway car for several incidents that should not be named. And let's not forget about the tens. How many of us drove around with B blaring Boyz in the Hood out of those babies?
That car was there from B's wild single days to our carefree newlywed days to our move to the city and into parenthood. It's had flat tires in most (if not all) of San Francisco's more undesirable neighborhoods. And it's been responsible for throwing one unsuspecting biker for a loop, so to speak. I'll never forget tying our Christmas trees to the roof and holding branches, with frozen fingers, through the sunroof. Or an angry Hudson strapped in his car seat throwing his shoes at us from the back seat.
So to you, Dear Accord: Thank you. Thanks for all the miles. Thanks for standing the test of time; and the daily strains of having B as your primary driver. You will be missed and remembered fondly.
