The fleet of Hondas is expanding. They’re kind of taking over the homestead.
Back in 2018, when the newly minted adult Rachel was in the market for her first car, she wanted a manual, and then she wanted to learn to drive said manual. We searched and searched, she and I, and happened upon a sparkly little Accord, lovingly cared for my a meticulous little man named Pat Klum. Know him? Me neither. But he was a stickler for maintenance and vehicular hygiene. That car was lovely. She had some matching duct tape matting one lower curb feeler, and a minor bullet graze atop her roof (yes, there was a story). She had 282,000 miles on her and she purred like a stick-shift kitten. She was beautiful. The kid got her for a steal. And said kid has been tromping around the country in her ever since. Her name is Rita.
In 2019, Emily the up-and-coming adult was ready to drop some dough on her first wheels. A manual, please. And teach me to drive it, please. Again, I searched, and there it was, our second Accord, just a little bit newer. Another steal. Another happy kid. And Charles enters the fray. Both Rachel and Emily took to driving clutch like ducks to water.
2020 brought 2 new Hondas into the fold. Both of them automatic minivans. The first, bought out from under our beast of a priest and his empty nest family, was our first Honda minivan, the powder blue Odyssey. We loved her. Then we killed her. Through no fault of her own, she was unceremoniously dashed upon the rocks, and suffered injuries leading to a swift and painless death. She currently resides in the driveway collecting scrap metal, soon to be hauled away to the scrap yard in the sky. RIP Minerva.
As we were not done with the Odyssey when we destroyed her, we were forced to seek out a replacement. Enter Odyssey #2, another steal, as this one literally had the catalytic converter cut out of his underside the week before we purchased him. The price was reflective of the thunderous roar that occurred when he sprang to life sans exhaust. We took a serious, some might say dumb, chance, on that loudmouth, but we came out smelling like roses. He’s been a good van, and we have sworn to hold him more safely than his predecessor. This one’s a guy. Some call him Severus. Some call him Odysseus. The only clear thing is that he is a he.
But outside of this menagerie, the homestead also houses a ’99 Toyota that has had 3 wheels in the grave for longer than Scott likes to admit, and the ’93 Yukon, which is just getting started.
That Toyota is done. That Toyota is a hazard. That Toyota has to go.
So I set to the hunt last week, poring through the black hole that is Craigslist. Thursday I drug the man out to see a few candidates in the Cities.
We’ve been married 15 years. You would think that I would have known this before now. But I didn’t.
What I learned that day is that Scott hates car shopping more than even I do, possibly more than seeing the dentist, and that partaking of the car shopping together is not actually good for anyone. At all. Used car dealers are a different breed. Private sellers are a different breed. Mostly they both make you lose faith in humanity and all that is good and right in the world. By the time we got home, Scott assumed the fetal position and I vowed to be in charge of all future vehicular purchases. Forever. Lest he combust.
And Friday night I came home with the newest addition, a snazzy little ’09 Honda Fit:
Seriously, the fanciest car we’ve ever owned. And it gets wild mileage; she thinks she’s a Prius.
Her name is Rosita the Fita, in honor of Joey Tribiani’s late recliner. In case you were wondering. And we love her.
So at this point, the death trap Toyota is having it’s gas tank drained, but it will soon take up residence in the scrap spot; As Odyssey #1 is trailered off, the Toyota will slide into position and take over the scrap metal collection duties of the homestead, and they are substantial.
And the Mighty Mighty Yukon will stand alone in the sea of Hondas. I don’t think that one will be converting, unless Honda starts making something beefier, something that grunts a little. The Yukon shall grace the ranks for years to come, mark my words.
In other news, the Concussion Kid has been doing well, recovering not only from all the years of head injuries, but also from the week of therapies out in Utah. It took almost 3 weeks before the kid wasn’t taking a 2-3 hour nap every day. I told you, it was a week!
Anyway, she’s doing well, so many thanks to all who helped get her to Cognitive FX! And Sunday, Emily and the beau took off for a massive 3-month camping road trip. Kind of figure-eighting it across America, as you do. (In Charles the Accord, I might add.) Racking up campgrounds and National Parks and LIFE, BABY. Oh, to be young again…
Last night she called from a Target parking lot in Denver to let me know that the Ottinger Camping Mojo had officially kicked in. A trivial piece of undercarriage molding had broken free somewhere after their first boondocking campsite in Nebraska, and by the time they dropped down to speeds where the rubbing was noticable, the front tire had rubbed fully half of the molding clean away. The beau was back in Target acquiring duct tape and zip ties so they could try their hand at some Ottinger-style repairs. I can’t believe we let them leave without duct tape and zip ties!
Ah yes. Now we’re traveling. Happy Trails, you crazy kids!
Back to Rosita the Fita… as our tiny little Fit has a 30-day warranty from the mostly-sketchy-somehow-still-mildly-trusted-but-only-because-he-gets-really-good-reviews dealer, we are obliged to drive the hell out of her, in an honest effort to bring all problems to light ASAP. So we took her across the state yesterday in pursuit of GrandBoy #3 and his family.
First we overshot our destination to have a little visit with Lake Michigan…
‘Twas a blustery one, but the sun eventually came out.
After communing with da Lake, we headed back to Peshtigo, to see the new digs, and the lovely boy we haven’t seen since his first week. Damn you, COVID.
Also meet his brothers, Nico and Weasley.
It was great to see Brianna and Kyle after so long, and especially the little pumpkin. This pandemic is killing me.
Anyhoo… the verdict so far:
She’s a champ, that Rosita. I think I dun good.
She’s also a stick, for the record. Because stick shifts are the best. Just don’t ask my old knee how it feels about the clutch.
If you need me, I’ll be looking forward to more family visits later this week (Thank God for good communication, and kids that are careful, that love us, and that want to keep us alive).