When a Car Isn’t Just a Car

After my mom passed away two decades ago, I inherited her 1989 Dodge Aries K-Car.

Frequently, heirs receive a piece of jewelry, the “good silverware,” or the treasured family recipe. In my case, I was grateful to acquire her car. I was still mourning my mom’s loss, and her car brought back warm memories.

“When someone we love dies, we can become oddly attached to the things they leave behind,” writes Elizabeth Kleinfeld, Ph.D., who blogs about grief. “The objects carry more than their material value – they hold stories, memories, and connections.”

This was true for me. I could still smell my mom’s perfume in her car.

The aroma took me back to a wintry evening when the two of us drove 20 miles from our hometown of WaKeeney, Kansas, to my cousin’s ranch for Christmas Eve dinner. As we rode home on moonlit country roads, we chatted about the savory prime rib Cousin Terry had prepared to perfection and our laughter-filled evening with a houseful of cousins.

Small-Town Living at Its Best

The K-Car, a line of cars Chrysler Corporation produced in the ’80s, was designed to be basic and fuel-efficient. My mom’s was burgundy inside and out, with four cylinders and manually operated windows and door locks.

My mom treated that car like a Ferrari.

She wouldn’t drive in the rain or even if ominous clouds hung in the distance; she parked it in the garage and had the oil changed on a meticulous schedule.

My mom purchased the new car shortly after my dad passed away, the first big decision she made on her own.

She didn’t even need to visit the dealership in WaKeeney, population 1,800, where I grew up and where my parents lived for more than 60 years. The owner of Harries Motor Company delivered the shiny new set of wheels to her home on Main Street. She wrote a check, and he handed over the keys.

When it was time to have the car serviced, she left it in her driveway with the key in the ignition and a signed blank check on the front seat.

“They pick it up and bring it back washed and waxed the same day!” she told me, thrilled with the good service.

Navigating Loss

After my mom’s estate was settled, I drove the K-Car from western Kansas back to Denver, Colorado, where I live.

Even though the vehicle was in perfect condition, it was 13 years old, and I crossed my fingers it would make the 300-mile journey.

The odometer showed only 29,000 miles, and I had no idea how she had managed to rack up even that much mileage. She drove to church every Sunday and the beauty shop and grocery store once a week, each only a couple of blocks from her home.

My friend Kristen dubbed my new acquisition Lucille, my mom’s middle name. After that, the car developed, well, a personality.

The radio would start blasting country music out of the blue, and the door on the driver’s side wouldn’t open, so I had to climb into the passenger seat and slide across.

Lucille didn’t have the cushy life in Denver she did in Kansas. My husband and I already had two cars in the garage, so Lucille had to sit outside in the elements. She endured blizzards, hail, falling tree branches, and the harsh Colorado sun.

Let’s just say she was no longer a looker. And it was my fault.

I wondered what my mom would think if she could see the faded paint, dings, and dents.

From Grief to Gratitude

Since Lucille was an extra car, I often loaned her to friends and neighbors. She didn’t take bumps well, and my husband teased that anyone who drove Lucille might want to visit the dentist afterward.

Whenever Kristen’s parents visited from out of state, they drove her Toyota, and she drove Lucille. Kristen’s fix-anything dad repaired the smashed-in taillight and the door that wouldn’t open.

Kristen loved driving Lucille and claims she took corners on two wheels.

As a thank you, in addition to fixing the car’s glitches, Kristen’s parents gave us a gift card to (where else but) Lucille’s Creole Café in Denver.

When we received messages from Kristen’s parents, they would write, “Dear Sherry, Don, and Lucille.”

Friends Jim and Dianne, who worked for the U.S. State Department, would borrow Lucille for several weeks when they were in Denver between assignments. They returned Lucille in pristine condition, having shown her more care than I ever had, and treated us to dinner. We still laugh about the bouncy ride.

With time, my grief transformed into gratitude. I could cherish the memories of my mom without sadness.

No Speedster, but a Sweet Ride

It was fun to tear around in Lucille and not worry about someone dinging the door in a parking lot.

And not once did I worry about being car-jacked.

While I considered Lucille an entertaining ride, onlookers no doubt saw a clunker, and I’m confident she added a decade to my age. When I was behind the wheel, I often noticed other drivers would smile and wave me ahead when I was merging.

I once handed a few dollars to someone holding a sign asking for money while I was stopped at a traffic light in Lucille. Their expression said, “Are you sure you can spare this?”

Cruising Down Memory Lane with Lucille 

My husband and I parked Lucille in Denver’s upscale Cherry Creek neighborhood one evening, and when we returned from dinner, we found a flyer on the windshield proclaiming, “We buy junk cars.”

My husband held up the flyer, laughed, and said, “I don’t see any other cars with one of these.”

Lucille failed me only once. I couldn’t open the garage door one frigid morning because the power had gone out, so I drove Lucille to work. She died halfway to my office downtown.

I called my boss and told her I would be late, explaining the reason. She responded by singing, “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille,” a lyric from the classic Kenny Rogers hit.

Letting Go 

After more than a decade and even a few road trips, Lucille was still going strong. When the odometer turned over 100,000, I patted the dash and said, “Good job, Lucille.”

I thought about my mom and how this would have made her smile.

But Lucille needed serious repairs that would have cost a bundle. The mechanic said if we ever decided to sell the K-Car, he’d love to buy her and fix her up.

Letting go was a tough decision. Lucille was more than a hunk of metal. She was an emotional connection to my mom.

But it was time.

I like to imagine Lucille restored to her former glory. Perhaps she found new life as a convertible with Corinthian leather seats.

I miss Lucille and her quirks. Of course, I miss my mom more. While I can’t explain it, having her car has been a source of laughter and comfort.

Thank you, Lucille. Happy trails.