the art of removing an abandoned car warning

Perhaps the policeman thought it was funny, the bright orange sticker that clashed horribly with the bad paint job. It certainly couldn’t be overlooked. Or ignored. We had to get the Little Ole Lady legal again or be embarrassingly impounded. I limped the car to the courthouse, my dad supervising because I had no idea what to do.

I remember last winter—I paced my kitchen, repeatedly looking out the window waiting for my car to revive from its coma, much like a relative on hospital vigil. It was buried under 6 feet of snow for almost two years straight while I was on my mission, and no one knew if it would ever run again.

Eureka! Two days later my brother-in-law, B, took a look, and it was (amazingly) alive. It was freezer burnt looking, the tires were split open (not flat, split), the tank still had the same gas that it had for two years, and it was alive.

And now, I had to give it some mandatory TLC—and renew registration.

Driving it today brought back some memories--like how my brother refused to drive it for fear of an explosion on the freeway. Or how it never had shocks, struts, or a muffler (floats like a butterfly, buzzes like a bee). Or how someone skinned a grey teddy bear and pinned the fur to its ceiling.

Or how I could never officially decide what name to call it--Mongoose Molly? Or The Little Old Lady from Pasadena?

I must declare: my car does not embarrass me. I can drive these mountain roads alongside the new Corvettes and Cameros, Dodge Hemys and Yukons, and I just don't care. Even with the offensive orange sticker, my granny car has a bit of coolness that comes from time. And now it's legally not an abandoned vehicle. (Thanks to my dad, of course, who taught me how to attempt haggling with the courthouse car lady. P. S. I don't think they haggle.)

Of course, I'm giving the car to my parents (for my brother when he returns home) and trading up for a '91 Buick, but I think I might have just given my heart away...