Snow as Winter's Content

 

Snow almost up to our kitchen window in upstate NY during a typical winter. 
The red object is a bird feeder, about 4 feet off the ground.

In 1591, William Shakespeare coined the phrase "winter of discontent" for his play, Richard III.  But while the bard waxes metaphorically on sociopolitical drama, I tend to take his phrase more literally.

Wintertime does not make me content!  Shakespeare and I may be from different continents, but we're both of the same hemisphere - the Northern Hemisphere - where wintertimes are chillier and snowier the farther north one goes.  And Shakespeare obviously played on those climate tensions.

Snow, ice, frigid air, shorter and darker days, bare trees - the longer I live, the more I'm finding them to be acquired tastes... that I've apparently lost!

I know most people begrudgingly tolerate Northern winters, and some actually enjoy them.  My cousins in Finland send me postcard-perfect photographs of Scandinavian snowfalls and pine trees laden in fluffy stoles of sparkling whiteness.  And while it's good that those who must annually endure snowy seasons can find beauty in them, I confess that increasingly, I find their beauty to be even less than skin-deep... because my skin gets chilled simply looking at those wintry scenes!

Besides, I've already put in my own snow time.

During most of my growing-up years, my family lived on the north shore of Oneida Lake, in rural upstate New York, smack in the middle of lake-effect snow country.  If you've ever lived on the eastern or southern sides of any of the Great Lakes, you know about lake-effect snow.  The term refers to the meteorological phenomenon of abundant, prolific precipitation resulting from super-cold air passing over warmer open water.  That dynamic tends to create starkly uneven bands of snow as the air continues to move further east and south.

Lake-effect snow isn't just flurries, or even a blizzard, but a snowstorm that can distribute drastically different amounts of snowfall within a relatively limited area.  I once saw a video online taken by a police officer in Buffalo - a notorious recipient of the phenomenon - who was standing at an intersection, with a blizzard consuming one half of his video screen, and as he panned a full 360 degrees, sunshine and dry ground appeared.  The visuals aren't usually that stark, but you get the idea.

During exceptionally cold winters, the fresh water of the Great Lakes cools so much that ice can cover much of their surface.  That usually reduces the chances of dramatic lake-effect snow.  But during winters when the Great Lakes don't freeze much, the chances of lake-effect snow increase.  This winter has been one of the latter, and the region of New York State where we used to live has been hammered with a couple of abnormally heavy snow events, thanks to lake-effect precipitation off of Lake Ontario.

Our little village of Cleveland, for example, received over two feet of snow just last weekend, and much of the region endured blizzard conditions for almost five days straight this past week.  Upwards of seven feet fell in bands across the far northern reaches of exurban Syracuse, from Oswego to Camden to Rome.  Some roofs are caving in from the snow, particularly since this has been the second massive snowfall in about a month.  Meanwhile, from Syracuse southward, snowfall has been far more manageable.

Of course, as a kid who didn't have to drive or go to work, lake-effect snow was great!  Due to the fickle nature of lake-effect snowfalls, our school district wouldn't necessarily be forced to close, but when it did, my brother and I played all day out in the stuff.  We had thick, bulky, hooded snow suits and chunky snow boots, plus ski masks and hats and mittens and scarves... I remember going through several pairs of mittens a day, dashing inside to get a new pair after getting my previous pair soaking wet, or clumped with marble-sized balls of ice.  Even with clean, dry mittens, my hands would be bright red and numb from the cold.

Mom would bake cookies or brownies and serve them to us with hot chocolate, with fresh-made soups for lunch.  I don't know which made my nose run more - the steaming warm food inside, or the biting cold and wind outside!

We lived in the country, so there were no immediate neighbors with which to play.  But I don't know that my brother and I knew enough to miss having playmates.  We built snow forts, we skidded around on our bikes in the slippery mess, we slid down a little hill on one side of our property, we "tested" the ice atop nearby brooks, we threw sticks into the snow for our collie to eagerly retrieve.  I especially remember snuggling down into drifts softly accumulating around the massive pine trees flanking the front of our century-old farmhouse, reveling in a silence so pure that it was almost like I could hear each flake settle on top of each other.

Have you ever noticed how a calm snowfall can help muffle many other sounds?  It creates almost a cocoon-type escape from the harshness noises normally inflict.  Later, when I lived in New York, I would marvel how the city was never more soft or placid or intimate as during a steady, wind-less snowfall, when even boisterous buses and clattering cabs were reduced in decibels by the enveloping snow.

Unfortunately, there's only a brief window of time during which snow's aesthetics were ever enjoyable, at least in urbanity.  Not long after the last flakes fell, that snow would become dirty, and troublesome, and annoying.

And that's only as a pedestrian, trying to navigate it!  Thankfully, I've never had to drive in a northern winter, since I didn't have a car while adulting up there.

Well, except for one time.

My brother got married during my NYC years, and one January, my aunt and I flew from Brooklyn to Detroit for their wedding, which was being held in my sister-in-law's native Canada.  We met my parents and my maternal grandmother - who'd all flown up from Texas - at the Detroit airport, and got the rental car Dad had reserved for our drive into Ontario.  

We'd landed right before a blizzard swept through the region.  Plus, older snow was already everyplace.  I didn't think anything of it until Dad announced that I would be doing the driving.  He caught me completely by surprise.

We'd all assumed he'd do the driving.  But no.  At the car rental place, perhaps after being confronted by all the snow in real time, he turned to me and said, "You live in Brooklyn now, but it's been decades since I've driven in this!"

His logic would have been fine, except for the fact that I didn't own a car in New York.  As for the rest of us, my aunt was a native New Yorker who'd never gotten her driver's license.  Mom never liked driving, and like my aunt, my maternal grandmother hadn't ever learned to drive, either.

But Dad no longer trusted himself in snow, and I guess he figured the fact that I lived in snow country meant I'd acquired the driving skills for it by osmosis.  Or something.

So we piled into that light-blue four-door Chrysler New Yorker (aptly named, I thought, all things considered), and I slowly freaked out as we crossed Detroit's towering Ambassador Bridge into Windsor, and then down through miles and miles of blustery snow that created something of a moonscape out of the dormant farmland.  The freeway we were ostensibly traveling hadn't yet been plowed, and Canadian drivers - obviously used to such grim conditions - were plowing along themselves, speeding past us on either side.  Meanwhile, here I was, with most of our little family in one vehicle, all depending on me for safety as we trekked into what seemed like the Canadian wilderness.  When we got to our hotel a couple of hours later, its parking lot had already been plowed out, with snowbanks on either side higher than our Chrysler.

We drove back to Detroit the next evening after the wedding, and all the roads had been scraped clean of any snow or ice, so Dad wasn't interested in anybody else driving but him.

When we lived upstate, Dad always seemed perfectly at ease driving in snow, ice, blizzards... whatever the weather.  I don't recall one instance of him fretting over precipitation or road conditions when he was behind the wheel.  

Our country farmhouse graced the top of a small hill, with a long gravel driveway that snaked up from the road on one side, around to our back door, and then along down the other side of our lawn to the road.  Dad normally kept both sides mostly clear with his snow-blower.  But when snowstorms hit while we were away, that driveway could get tricky.

While returning home during a blizzard, Dad and Mom sometimes calmly discussed options for whichever side of our driveway might offer the easiest trek up that hill, depending on conditions.  After making their selection, Dad would then accelerate as we'd drive up the road towards our house, which was safe to do because there was hardly any other traffic.  When he'd reach either part of our driveway, there would be no braking - he'd simply point our vehicle up the hill and keep accelerating!  Most times, we'd zip up there and around to the back of the house in several thrilling seconds' worth of spinning tires, fishtailing, and snow flying from our vehicle's wheelwells.

Dad developed such a knack for navigating that driveway, only rarely would our car ever get mired in the snow.

Oh, that snow.  Even as a kid, that snow eventually got old.  I remember a springtime or two when snowstorms kept moving through to the point where my brother and I would get a shovel and dig down through all the whiteness to check and make sure our grassy lawn was still there.

How liberating would seem the first spring day when we no longer had to wear those heavy, clunky winter boots!  My feet, back in their sneakers and shoes, felt so lightweight and carefree!  And Mom would clean our snow boots one final time and put them in storage for the next few months... until the cycle of snow would start all over again.  

Because summers up north always seemed so short, and winters seemed so long.

Maybe the best thing about winter is that it makes one so glad when it's over.  Or... maybe I'm just never content with the weather.  Down here in Texas, I'm always glad when our blistering summers are over, too!

Happy mediums are often elusive, aren't they?  

Maybe it's why reality and facts often get described as "cold".

_____

My History By My Cars

Plodding through downtown Dallas traffic last week in my Honda Accord...
(Yes, my car was fully stopped at the time!)

 

What drives you?  In terms of automobiles, at least?

Is it a sports car?  Or pickup trucks?  

Some people don't seem to care what they drive; they simply drive whatever they can afford.  

Finances aside, however, many of us DO care what we drive.  Maybe more than we should.  To us, our vehicles aren't simply a utility for geographic mobility.  Our vehicles exist as an extension of our personality, or what we aspire to be, or how we want others to think about us.  

In other words, our vehicles aren't just for geographic mobility, but social mobility, perhaps?  However feigned it may be?

I'll admit that my personal history as a vehicle owner has been a mix of pretension and practicality.  In terms of practicality, I've always driven what I could reasonably afford.  But while I've been able to afford a two-seater, for example, I haven't ever considered those practical.  Meanwhile, a pickup truck is indeed practical, but it's really only practical if you have to haul stuff, which I don't.

It will bore people who love exotic cars, but my vehicular expression has been through conventional two-door coupes and four-door sedans.  So no exotics, alas - or family-hauler station wagons or SUVs, either!  Or convertibles, although now that I'm bald, those concerns about my hair when I was younger no longer apply!  And since I'm tall, no sub-compacts.

Yet in terms of pretension, I'm not innocent.  I've always purchased each of my vehicles based on what I wanted it to say about me.  And yes, what I wanted each automobile to say about myself was always just a little bit more than who I really was.

Except for maybe my current vehicle, a 2009 Honda Accord EX four-cylinder sedan, which I bought brand-new.  I wanted a vehicle that was modest but not prudish, and comfortable without being ostentatious.  Which has kinda become the whole Honda ethos anyway, right?

This Accord has been my second Honda, and frankly, it has served me very well over these 16 years.  Even if today, I could afford to trade it in on something else - anything else! - this car gives me no practical reason to do so.  It's been remarkably reliable, and all I have to do is change the oil and rotate its tires.

It's not luxurious or prestigious or collectible, although I keep it relatively clean.  Somebody at my local Kroger supermarket thought it needed a dent from their shopping cart, but other than that, its body is still in great shape.

Considering my history of cars, and what I thought they did for me and my image, sometimes now I marvel at how I have no desire to trade in my current Honda.  I don't feel ashamed when I walk up to that aging sedan while parked in a trendy or affluent Dallas neighborhood.  I still take pride in how clean its interior remains, all these years later.  I'm content with it, and considering how discontented I've been throughout my vehicular history, that surprises me today.

You see, my Honda represents not just basic transportation to me, but also something of my own maturation process, as I've transitioned from a person who used to derive considerable gratification, affirmation, and identity from his vehicles, but now views them mostly as appliances for transportation.

I learned to drive using my Mom's 1978 Ford Fairmont coupe, which was an underwhelming car in every respect.  It looked okay, for a car of its era:  Silver with a red vinyl roof and red fabric interior.  Mechanically, it was utterly functional, and fairly reliable when new, but hardly fun or impressive.  The older it got, the more it broke down, stranding me at least twice, which is something none of my subsequent cars have done.  Surprisingly, Mom and Dad kept that coupe until the early 1990s, when one of my father's co-workers bought it despite knowing its provenance.

1.  1977 Buick Riviera; purchased used in 1984

When I graduated from high school, I purchased a 1977 Buick Riviera as my first vehicle.  I'd seen it sitting in the corner of a used-car lot here in town, and at first, the dealer didn't take me seriously when I inquired about it.  What did a tall, thin, red-blooded American teenager want with an old person's luxury barge like that Riviera?  Two-tone light blue, with a padded vinyl landau top and crushed velour seats.  Opera lamps, sport wheels, all the bells and whistles from Buick's options list, except for a sunroof.  A real chick-magnet, right?

If it all sounds ostentatious, that's because its unabashed luxury and size were intentionally disproportionate to the diminutive simplicity of that Fairmont.  Under its long hood, my Buick boasted GM's legendary 350 V8 engine, which when I floored it, provided a rush of not just power to the engine, but adrenaline to myself and my passengers, as that huge mass of steel could suddenly out-maneuver many lesser-powered cars.

Granted, there were times where I could actually watch my dashboard's gas gauge literally sink in real time as I accelerated.  Yes, it was made before Detroit's "gas-guzzling" era came to an end.  With a powerful engine like that, you'd probably think I'd end up getting into a wreck while joyriding and exploiting its surprising performance.  Alas, its end came quite ironically - innocently parked in a mall parking lot while I was at work, one of two parked cars totaled by a drunk driver in a Dodge.

2.  1981 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale Brougham sedan; purchased used in 1986

My next car was as large as the Buick, but with two more doors - a 1981 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale Brougham.  It featured an all-white exterior with a white padded vinyl top and plush burgundy velour interior.  Plus those gaudy wire hubcaps which we all thought were so fashionable then.  And no, it wasn't a chick-magnet either.  I was mid-way through college, but fancied myself as an up-and-coming professional businessperson, and believed this car would help set that tone to onlookers.  Turns out, I was wrong on both counts!

3.  1989 Mercury Sable LS sedan; purchased new

When I entered grad school, I figured I needed to up the ante in terms of driving around like a professional person, and my Oldsmobile was experiencing some costly mechanical issues.  So I traded it in for a 1989 Mercury Sable LS, which offered my first (and, I decided, last) experience with leather seats.  

I liked the ease with which leather allows passengers to glide into and alight from seating surfaces, but here in Texas summertimes, leather gets incredibly hot.  And it also still gets frigid in winter.  I just didn't see what was so great about that, with my backside either soaked in perspiration or chilled from the cold.  Eventually, the leather on my back seat's headrests literally began to fry from Texas' sunlight (this was right before after-market tinted windows became popular).  And all that leather conditioner I massaged into those seats only seemed to exacerbate its scorching.  I tried covering up the leather with a blanket, but that looked silly.  So ever since then, I've steered clear of leather and/or "pleather" (although I admit some of those materials today seem more resilient).

4.  1997 Mercury Grand Marquis LS sedan; purchased new

In 1997, I began my fourth job, with a company owned by a prominent family.  Apparently, I thought maybe a bigger car would befit what I presumed would be an increase in my socioeconomic status.  Looking back, I can't remember any other rationale for choosing one of the largest American sedans ever made, but I signed the papers on a humongous, 4-door Mercury Grand Marquis LS V8.  White, with tan leather, just like my Sable, and with those leather seats I'd already told myself I wouldn't buy again.

Even before I drove away from the dealership, my salesperson could tell I wasn't convinced I'd purchased the right vehicle.  I remember it was the Fourth of July weekend, so he told me to tool around town for the holiday since they were closed anyway, and I would almost certainly fall in love with it.

I drove home, and immediately discovered the Grand Marquis was so grand, it literally didn't fit in our garage!  And our house was built during another era of huge Detroit cars, the 1950s.  It barely squeezed through the single-car garage door frame, but it was several inches too long, and I couldn't close the garage door!  Ours is a two-car garage, and I literally had to open the other garage door to get out.  I parked my brand-new car in our driveway.  How embarrassing, since our neighbors could see my white elephant with its paper dealer tags sitting outside of our empty garage.

Technically, we had a washing machine and dryer in the garage that I could move to free up some space for that Grand Marquis, but I'd have to call a plumber and electrician to have it done correctly.  Back then, Mom and Dad were spending their summers at Mom's childhood home in coastal Maine, which she'd inherited after my grandmother died.  I called them up and told them, and they were perplexed over why I needed such a large car to begin with.  Sure, we guess you can move the washing machine and dryer, but to what part of the garage?  Tell us again why you need a Grand Marquis?

I took it out onto a local freeway, and its floaty ride almost made me sick.  Not sick from its actual buoyancy, you understand, but because that sensation made me realize I'd purchased a senior citizen's cream puff!  

On the one hand, it was cool to see potholes coming and only hearing a murmur from the suspension while gliding over them.  On the other hand, I had to turn my steering wheel forever to make the slightest turn, and I felt like I needed to schedule an appointment to begin any braking process.  I was piloting an oil tanker, not a passenger car!  My new boss and his family were out of town for the holiday, but they'd invited me to use their luxurious home's swimming pool, so some friends came over and I took them for a short ride in that barge.  And while they were polite, I could tell they didn't know why I'd bought it.

Ohmygoodness.  Not only did I not like the car, I realized it would send all the wrong signals about who I thought I was, and portray me in an even worse light than simply being pretentious.

I mean, for most of my life, I've known I'm weird.  But I certainly didn't need to pay good money for my car to broadcast that fact!

So after the holiday, I humbly drove back over to the dealership.  My salesperson wasn't surprised at all, but he had to work hard to convince his managers that they really should take the car back.  In retrospect, I have no idea why the salesperson advocated on my behalf, instead of simply shrugging his shoulders and pointing to my signatures on their ream of purchase documents.  But the dealership's leadership eventually consented.  I'd kept the car in pristine condition, and I'd only put a minimal amount of miles on it.  I'd driven it off the lot with practically none, meaning it still had fewer miles on the odometer than many of their other cars (do some people take test drives to Houston and back, I wondered).  However, they would take it back only if I purchased something else from their stock.

5.  1997 Mercury Cougar XR-7 coupe; purchased new

Fair enough, right?  Fortunately, they had sitting right by the showroom a gleaming light blue metallic Mercury Cougar XR-7 V8.  It was a two-door coupe, but it was much more reasonably sized, plus its price was quite a bit lower than the Grand Marquis.  And the dealership was even willing to transfer the same discounted financing package they'd given me for the Grand Marquis.  Frankly, even though I wasn't crazy about a sports car, I couldn't refuse their willingness to work with me.  

And hey - that Cougar has been the sportiest car I've ever owned!  It's probably been the most appropriate one for me, at least when I was still relatively young.  It had a spoiler, huge rally wheels, wide tires, deep (cloth) bucket seats in front, and contoured seating for only two people in the back - not three.  Thanks to that V8, its performance was smile-inducing.  I also learned that its body style was Ford's last mid-sized design for its Thunderbird/Cougar pairing; the next year, Ford would drop the Thunderbird completely, and only offer a compact, ugly little Cougar.

I didn't think any more about Ford's model change until about a year later, when I read where my larger Cougar wasn't depreciating as much as would otherwise be expected.  In fact, my car's body style was in demand from customers who'd been caught off-guard by Ford's decision to downsize the model.  Sure enough, on a whim, I half-heartedly put it up for sale, and quickly got what I'd thought had been an ambitious asking price!  The middle-aged couple who bought it told me their banker was dubious about the price they were willing to pay for it, until the banker did some research to learn why the car's value was surprisingly high.  Before I realized it, I was in the market for yet another car.

6.  1998 Chevrolet Malibu LS sedan; purchased new

You'll notice that up until now, I'd been a staunchly patriotic American car buyer.  Nothing but Detroit steel for me.  However, my allegiance to Detroit began to waver with my next vehicle, a tidy-looking but atrociously-built Chevy Malibu LS.  It was peppy and comfortable and roomy, for a smallish mid-sized sedan.  But almost immediately, it started falling apart.

Let me see if I can remember all of its flaws.  The first time I washed it, water seeped down the inside of its driver's door window.  So I made sure the window was completely closed, and washed it again.  Same seepage.  

As I'd drive about, I noticed a lot of breezy wind noise coming from that door, and after several trips to the dealership, their mechanics determined the door had been constructed improperly.  It literally didn't fit into the car's frame, which also explained why the window wouldn't close completely.  

By now, it had developed an oil leak that the dealership couldn't manage to fix.  Sometimes, it simply wouldn't start.  Eventually, the dealership told me my only option was to file for a buy-back from Chevrolet through Texas' lemon laws.

After a stressful hearing moderated at the Better Business Bureau's Fort Worth office, Chevrolet was forced to refund my money, less depreciation.  But the representative from Chevrolet on that conference call was so ugly and condescending to me, I vowed to never purchase another new Chevy ever again.

7.  1999 Buick Regal LS sedan; purchased new

I did return to the same GM dealership, however, since they weren't at fault, and purchased a new 1999 Buick Regal LS.  It was the right size for me, it had lots of comfort and luxury for the price, and I liked how it looked, even when an acquaintance told me obliquely that what he considered to be its dowdy appearance befitted my personality!

Yeah, I've had some good friends over the years...

Thankfully, my Regal ownership was only marred by four other drivers rear-ending me, scuffing up my back bumper until I finally stopped getting it fixed.  Every incident happened when my car was either stopped or parked.  One Sunday I was parallel-parked on a side street near my Dallas church; I came out after services to find a Ford Explorer wedged into my back bumper.  I left a polite note with my e-mail address on its windshield, only to receive a curt response from the owner who had also attended my church that morning and suggested I take the sermon to heart and be gracious and forgiving.

I kid you not.

Another Ford Explorer driver was even more impertinent.  While on our way home from dinner one evening, before Mom and Dad were again leaving for Maine that summer, we got rear-ended hard.  We were stuck in traffic and I watched in my rear-view mirror as a woman piloted her Explorer into my trunk at normal speed without ever looking straight ahead or braking.  I yelled to Mom and Dad to brace for impact, which we all did by leaning forward and cradling our heads in our hands.

Thankfully, none of us were injured at all.  

Have you ever heard of "crumple zones"?  They're engineered sheets of aluminum and steel that are designed to fold together - to "crumple" - and thereby absorb significant amounts of energy from certain types of crashes.  Well, my Buick's crumple zones worked just like they were supposed to.  Its sheetmetal, from its undamaged rear window to the bumper, including fenders and trunk, was all crunched together like a metal accordion.

My dealership's body shop was able to fix everything and deliver my Buick without a trace of twisted metal.  However, not long after that, a friend of mine was rear-ended in her Toyota, and her insurance agent warned her that while her car was fixed to industry standards, it would never provide exactly the same amount of protection in another crash as it had provided with factory-installed crumple zones.  So after getting her Toyota back from her body shop, she promptly traded it in for a brand-new one.

I called my insurance agent and asked her about re-manufactured crumple zones, since obviously, she knew all about my wreck.  And she corroborated what my friend's insurance agent had told her.  So I went ahead and traded-in my Buick, and took something of a hit on its value because I told my new dealership's salesperson about the accident.

8.  2002 Volkswagen Passat GLS sedan; purchased new

Actually, the salesperson for my new Volkswagen admitted that they could run a Carfax on the vehicle, and besides, their in-house estimators would likely have discovered the re-manufactured crumple zones anyway, before they gave me an official trade-in offer.  However, the fact that I offered that information up-front made them willing to be more generous in their valuation.

Simply put, my next ride, a 2002 VW Passat GLS, proved to be my favorite car overall.  It hasn't been my fastest, or most expensive.  It's been one of my smaller cars, although its aesthetics and proportions were appealing and satisfying.  Closing its doors sounded reassuringly solid, and I felt safer inside its passenger cabin than I have in larger vehicles.  Interior surfaces felt sumptuous to the touch, especially for its price, and ergonomics were impressively calculated.  It held the road well, boasting a nimbleness I'd never experienced in my previous cars.  Plus, it had my first sunroof - a feature I enjoyed more that I thought I would, and have sought in my successive vehicles.

As much as I liked my Passat, however, I can't say it was perfect.  Its passenger cabin proved to be quite soundproof, which I liked.  But that also meant I could hear incessant rattles and rustling from the vehicle itself, no matter how smooth the road was.  The dealer finally determined that my interior headliner, of all things, had been installed improperly in the factory in Germany.  It was a one-piece unit housing various sensors for airbags and other electronics, and couldn't simply be re-installed.  They told me VW flew a specially-trained mechanic down to Texas from New Jersey to remove the original headliner and install a brand-new one from Germany.  

The whole process took a month, and VW provided me with loaner cars the whole time, and they paid my car note for that month!  One of the loaner cars I drove had VW's expensive, optional rubber floor mats, and when I commented to the dealership about how much I liked them, they gave me a new set for my car at no cost, since they thought I was being patient as they fixed my headliner.

For people who usually have nothing good to say about car dealers, my personal experience, as proven with my two Mercurys, my Passat, and even my Malibu/Regal fiasco, indicates that if you treat them the way you'd like to be treated, there's a good chance they just might reciprocate!

During my Passat ownership, I ended up also experiencing an extended period of under-employment, working part-time at a popular Tex-Mex restaurant between full-time jobs.  When I eventually got a better job, I decided to pay off the credit card debt I'd accrued.  My Passat hadn't depreciated as much as other cars its age, I'd maintained it well, and as much as I liked it, I decided my financial needs were more important.  I sold it to a local business owner who wanted an extraordinarily safe vehicle for his accident-prone daughter.

9.  2006 Honda Accord EX sedan; purchased new

Despite that bizarre headliner issue, my experience with a non-American brand had gone so well, I decided to continue with imports, selecting the highly-reviewed 2006 Honda Accord EX.  Unlike my Passat, it was a boring car inside and out, and although it measured slightly larger than my Passat, it felt smaller inside.  Its performance was anemic, but it gave me no mechanical problems of any kind whatsoever.  Utter functionality with zero personality which, admittedly, matched the Honda experience I'd heard about from all the consumers and experts who rate it so highly.

10.  2009 Honda Accord EX sedan; purchased new

I didn't need to get rid of my first Accord, but after three years, I received a notice from my Honda dealer basically saying they needed used cars for their inventory, so they wanted my current car.  To make it work for both of us, their incentives were quite generous.  Plus, the Accord had graduated to a larger body style, which really got my attention.  So I checked it out, and sure enough... my 2009 Honda Accord EX was larger in every way, I felt far more comfortable inside, I liked its looks, and I talked them into giving me rubber floor mats, similar to my Passat's!

When I got home from the dealership, I discovered that my father wasn't thrilled with me owning another import.  He hadn't said much about my previous Honda, and he'd even congratulated me when I purchased the Passat.  But that was because the Passat was a Volkswagen, and he and Mom had themselves owned two VWs when we were still living in upstate New York.  So he didn't really consider them an "import".  But to him, Hondas were imports, even though both of mine were made in Marysville, Ohio.

The sadly ironic part of his disapproval came from the reality that he'd just begun his long journey into dementia.  However, despite the first-phase short-term memory loss he was then exhibiting, he clearly remembered he didn't care for Japanese cars!  So I didn't make a big deal about my new Accord.  Never bothered to talk about it with him, or point out any of its features.  I figured reminding him less about it would be better in the long run.  And sure enough, after a while, Dad was quietly complimenting me on how comfortable it was every time he got into it - apparently never remembering he'd ridden in it before.

And would you believe it - I soon felt some deja-vu all over again:  An annoying rattle underneath my new Honda was driving me nuts.  My first Accord had been trouble-free, and I was frustrated that I couldn't replicate that success.  My dealership eventually discovered the problem - my gas tank had been installed improperly!  It was rubbing against my muffler, which struck me as being something of a danger risk.  For whatever reason, the dealership had to remove (and eventually replace) my entire back seat in the process of fixing my car outside of the factory, but ever since then, my Accord has been problem-free.

Ten and Holding

Looking back over my personal history as reflected in the cars I've owned, I can make some obvious conclusions.

First, let me reiterate that I CHOSE to purchase each and every one of these vehicles.  Nobody gave any of them to me, I didn't inherit any of them, and I wasn't obligated to choose any of them.  There were options in every purchase decision, and with the exception of my second car, after the totaled Riviera, I had the option of not buying another car, but keeping the one I had.

I never seemed to be satisfied.  At least a couple of my purchases reflected some pretty bad decision-making.  I could have waited to make a better decision at another time with different options in play. 

Suffice it to say that my car-buying history proves I don't always act in my own best interest.

Nevertheless, let's focus on the apparent reality that over time, I've come to assign less importance to the status I used to expect my vehicles to convey about me.  When friends of mine purchase new vehicles for themselves, my younger self would get smitten by the "gotta-buy-a-new-car" bug.  But these days, while I'm happy for my friends and their updated rides, I don't feel chagrin that my own car is as dated as it's become.

That's a sign of progress, right?

Not that I wouldn't enjoy having a new, flashier vehicle myself.  But being content with what one has and/or can afford can be something of an unusual character trait in and of itself.  And that's a trait I haven't had during most of my life.

I guess like my aging Honda, we'll see how long it lasts!

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