This weekend, while most people were nesting indoors from torrid rains, I was selling cars. Two of them, in fact; one was my '99 Rav4 that was Blue-Booked at $2100 and needed $2500 worth of repairs. Pretty much a no-brainer. Buh-bye.
But getting rid of the other car was more difficult. It was my mother's 2004 Corolla and the car that I inherited when she passed away. Despite being a fine little car with great gas mileage, I've never been comfortable claiming it as "mine." Every time I sat behind the wheel, I'd look at the passenger side and expect to see Mom's smiling face. I'd remember our Sunday afternoons tootling off for yet another lunch at Alberto's, family dinner at Jenny's, or movie matinee. And I'd feel that now-familiar ache and miss my best friend--my mother--for the umpteenth time.
How could I enjoy this car, given how it came to be mine?
So I sold it.
But before doing so, I asked the buyer if I could keep the personalized license plates. Bearing my mother's maiden name, de Roux, the plates brought back a more pleasant memory: the day she phoned me, roaring with evil delight.
Seemed she had just gotten off the phone with her older brother who was angry. Boy, was he ANGRY. Seemed he'd submitted a request for personalized license plates and had been denied by DMV. Seemed somebody else had already claimed the name. His name.
"Who else in this country has my name?" he seethed to Mom."de Roux is French! It's not a common name like Smith or Jones, for gawd's sake. Who is the sonofabitch that stole my name?"
To which, barely containing her laughter, she replied, "Uh, that would be me."
The car is now gone and with it, another remnant of mom. But the license plate will hang in my garage--a reminder of her wicked glee the day she trumped her brother.
How could I enjoy this car, given how it came to be mine?
So I sold it.
But before doing so, I asked the buyer if I could keep the personalized license plates. Bearing my mother's maiden name, de Roux, the plates brought back a more pleasant memory: the day she phoned me, roaring with evil delight.
Seemed she had just gotten off the phone with her older brother who was angry. Boy, was he ANGRY. Seemed he'd submitted a request for personalized license plates and had been denied by DMV. Seemed somebody else had already claimed the name. His name.
"Who else in this country has my name?" he seethed to Mom."de Roux is French! It's not a common name like Smith or Jones, for gawd's sake. Who is the sonofabitch that stole my name?"
To which, barely containing her laughter, she replied, "Uh, that would be me."
The car is now gone and with it, another remnant of mom. But the license plate will hang in my garage--a reminder of her wicked glee the day she trumped her brother.
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