September 7, 2000
Suburban Legend
by Joshua Carden
Ok, so I don’t really have a suburban, but I liked the title. My mom has a suburban, so I figured I could get away with it. Mine’s a blazer. Maroon, four-door, 1991 Chevrolet (“Have you driven over a Ford lately?). Ol’ Betsy, I call her (I don’t have a rifle). You may ask yourself “An article about a car? Give us a break, we don’t want to read about a dumb old car!” Ahh, but this car is different. This car has a mind of her own. She’s basically something like Herbie with more leg room. To illustrate, Betsy has her own security system. I removed the fuse from the security system over six years ago. Yet periodically, Betsy will complain about getting up too early by blasting away on her fuse-less alarm, to my embarrassment and the annoyance of my neighbors. The mechanics are baffled. Another personality quirk lies in her windshield washer. The squirter is pointed just far enough around that I can drench anyone who comes up to the driver’s window. We share a prankster’s mind, Betsy and I. (And please, no “hope there’s enough to go around” comments.)
I received Betsy from my grandmother for my 18th birthday. I quickly recognized the value of the gift and immediately decided that since God had blessed me with a car, I would try to use her to bless others. God has rewarded me by keeping me alive while I drive her. I haven’t always used good driving sense and I’m sure I’ve taxed my guardian angel on more than one occasion. For instance, I once packed nine people into Ol’ Betsy for an hour-long trip to Dallas. I put 20 sacks of ostrich feed (50 pound sacks) in the back at one time. I’ve loaned her out to people that I wouldn’t even consent to RIDING in a car with! And of course, I’ve done the obligatory complete change of clothing while driving to church and other more formal occasions.
I’ve only had one accident in Ol’ Betsy. A pox upon the gravel roads in Northern Virginia! I was even going the speed limit. The gravel road fell away from me as I turned to the left. The wheels slipped and I took out two mailboxes in the most beautiful broadside smash you’d ever wish to see. Dented every panel on her right side. Yet God provided the money to fix her up.
On another occasion, I neglected to notice that Betsy had a slow oil leak. I was in a hurry one evening and Betsy decided to bring her lack of oil to my attention by throwing a rod right through the engine block. I apologized profusely but it was too late: Betsy needed major surgery. After having her towed to my pastor’s brother’s house (does that make him my spiritual uncle?) he found a rebuilt engine for me. When I went to pay him, he said “Well, Josh, I’d charge you, but somebody in the church already paid me for you.” I nearly fell off the porch. That was a major blessing in my life, since I was a poor college student at that time (As opposed to being a poor law student now).
There are only two negative things about driving a sport-utility vehicle like Betsy. 1. You can see what the fast-food people are doing through the pick-up window. 2. You don’t get good traction on ice. The most terrifying experience I’ve ever had in Betsy was a crisp morning in Fort Worth, Texas in 1997. We had had our once-a-decade ice storm in Fort Worth the previous evening, but most of it had melted in the morning sun. Key word here is “most.” As I exited the highway, I turned left at the green light to proceed underneath the overpass. When I entered the turn, I hit a patch of ice that was slicker than elephant snot. Providentially, there was no one beside me in the double turn lane. I did a complete 360-degree turn on the ice patch, and regained traction in time to proceed in the direction I intended to. I’m not making this up. Picture a rather ungainly ice-skater’s pirouette and you have the general picture. It happened so fast that it was a full ten seconds before I realized what had happened. When I did, I got a pretty bad case of the heebie-jeebies. It didn’t help that The Byrd’s began singing “To everything, Turn, Turn, Turn…” (Ok, so I made that part up.)
Anyway, life without Betsy would be pretty dull. She’s gone from Texas to Virginia three times, holding all my worldly possessions, and played music from every radio station in between. She’s helped squash snakes on the highway. She can make it to the gas station on the barest whiff of gasoline (I’ve died at the pump six times). She has carried me like a faithful steed through the highways and byways, and the occasional open field. She…[Editor’s note: this incredibly mushy tribute has been edited to conserve server memory.] …and now you know my car, Betsy. Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, eat your heart out!