I sold my car recently

I sold my car recently, and I say that with the tone usually reserved for breaking the news of a divorce to a close friend. My 1984 Honda Accord had 253,000 miles, a crumpled front quarter panel and a fuel gauge that gave purely arbitrary readings. But it was in my life for 10 years and, damn it, it had character.

I now understand why crusty old sailors give their ships girls' names and refer to them by the feminine demonstrative pronoun. That poo-brown, cigarette-burned, blue-smoke spitting automobile was more human than most humans I've met. And my relationship with her was better, too. Sure, she kicked and groaned and whined from time to time, but only from mistreatment. I needed realignment, not the car.

It's been replaced with a 1996 Saturn — a dependable car, no doubt, but in the same way that plain rice is a dependable meal. "At least it's American made," my old man said when he saw it. It is, but it's also purple, so I think the two cancel each other out.

This is my second purple car, which is an amazing feat for a straight man. The first one was in high school. After bagging groceries for a year and saving every dollar, my old man took me to the auto auction. I had my sights set on a truck — something with an engine I could rev to impress girls I didn't know but were sure to flock around me as soon as I bought it.

Then my old man saw a Cavalier tucked in the back corner of the lot. Low miles, flawless transmission, low price. "It's American made, too," he said.

"Yeah, but it's purple," I said.

"What difference does it make? Look," he said, pointing to the starting bid. "They're practically giving it away."

"Do you know why, dad? Because it's purple."

"Nonsense. This is your car."

He was right — it was a good car. And the overwhelming purpleness of it turned out to be a blessing in disguise: realizing that my purple car was to girls what holy water was to vampires, I was able to concentrate on school and I am better for it.

My friends and family tell me it was long overdue that I got rid of the Accord.

"I worried about you out there driving 20 miles from the nearest town."

"Dude, that thing kicked like a mule."

The harshest criticism came from my special lady-friend: "You know I loved that car, but it was time. It was beat up, old and ugly."

"I'm sorry that I stay with things even if they are older and not as attractive as they once were," I said. "I can change that. When you're old and don't run like you used to, I'll trade you in for a younger model — all done up in purple, purrs like a kitten. We'll just ride off into the sunset."

She didn't think it as funny as I did.

Brandon Swanson is the assistant editor of the Columbia Basin Herald.