A lot of my recent posts have focused on vehicles, something I have historically taken for granted.
Not anymore.
Today I'm in Olive, our aged olive green Nissan Altima who proudly bears scars of a poorly sealed paintjob prior to our ownership that has resulted in a 100% oxidized olive metallic finish now which more closely resembles ...dusty bronze than a shimmery green olive anymore. And whose odometer shows 148689 miles as of today's date.
But she's been rode hard, our Olive.
She currently smells musty, making me think wet things were left inside her while she was sitting in the sun. A towel perhaps? A spilled water bottle that soaked the carpet? Golf socks left under the seat for the weekend? Or, perhaps, and more likely, a combination thereof.
Her leather seats are now split in places, and have been haphazardly covered with AutoZone's own seatcovers du jour...which are flimsy and have pulled up, elastic blown long ago. One lies abandoned in the back seat, a testament to a bad day when some poor passenger most likely became entangled in the cover and finally, in frustration, removed it forcefully from the seat, preferring to sit on split leather than a crazy, wrinkly, seat cover.
She needs love of a type that I don't believe we can provide anymore. Yet she remains stoic, and in spite of the many affronts she's endured during her life, she continues to move forward. I admire her tenacity and fortitude in this, and believe her to be a metaphor for never giving up....truly.
Turning the corner quickly, or accelerating while doing same, elicits a rather mournful moan from her undercarriage, a groan that she tries to suppress, but which rises up and causes me to turn down the radio to be certain all parts are still attached as we make our way down the straightaway after the turn.
So far, all parts have remained attached, but I fear Olive must be treated with kid gloves and never ever coerced beyond her geriatric capabilities.
My day with Olive has made me miss the big red truck, which is getting new tires today and which hubby has taken to the Nissan dealer so they can fix the incessantly chiming emergency brake.
I've not heard a word since I departed the house early this morning. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, it just is.
I'm sure I'll hear the full story when Olive and I ease up into the driveway after our evening trek home. I always hear the full story, and more often than not it's more ridiculous than any fiction writer could conjure on a particularly fertile imagination day.
Not anymore.
Today I'm in Olive, our aged olive green Nissan Altima who proudly bears scars of a poorly sealed paintjob prior to our ownership that has resulted in a 100% oxidized olive metallic finish now which more closely resembles ...dusty bronze than a shimmery green olive anymore. And whose odometer shows 148689 miles as of today's date.
But she's been rode hard, our Olive.
She currently smells musty, making me think wet things were left inside her while she was sitting in the sun. A towel perhaps? A spilled water bottle that soaked the carpet? Golf socks left under the seat for the weekend? Or, perhaps, and more likely, a combination thereof.
Her leather seats are now split in places, and have been haphazardly covered with AutoZone's own seatcovers du jour...which are flimsy and have pulled up, elastic blown long ago. One lies abandoned in the back seat, a testament to a bad day when some poor passenger most likely became entangled in the cover and finally, in frustration, removed it forcefully from the seat, preferring to sit on split leather than a crazy, wrinkly, seat cover.
She needs love of a type that I don't believe we can provide anymore. Yet she remains stoic, and in spite of the many affronts she's endured during her life, she continues to move forward. I admire her tenacity and fortitude in this, and believe her to be a metaphor for never giving up....truly.
Turning the corner quickly, or accelerating while doing same, elicits a rather mournful moan from her undercarriage, a groan that she tries to suppress, but which rises up and causes me to turn down the radio to be certain all parts are still attached as we make our way down the straightaway after the turn.
So far, all parts have remained attached, but I fear Olive must be treated with kid gloves and never ever coerced beyond her geriatric capabilities.
My day with Olive has made me miss the big red truck, which is getting new tires today and which hubby has taken to the Nissan dealer so they can fix the incessantly chiming emergency brake.
I've not heard a word since I departed the house early this morning. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, it just is.
I'm sure I'll hear the full story when Olive and I ease up into the driveway after our evening trek home. I always hear the full story, and more often than not it's more ridiculous than any fiction writer could conjure on a particularly fertile imagination day.
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