Mary FortuneI really thought I was going to make it, but the afternoon sun through the clouded glass finally did me in.
“I’m going to have to pull over and wash this windshield,” I told my mother. “I hate to stop when we’re so close to home, but I’m driving blind.”
The windshield of my mother’s 19-year-old car was caked with sand from Florida and road grime from nearly 10 hours of interstate driving. We rolled into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant in Ringgold and I popped the trunk. Mom rooted around in there until she came up with the giant jug of washer fluid she carries around, toted it to the front of the car and threw a few splashes of it on the glass while I ran the wipers.
“That’s got it,” I said. “Let’s go.”
My mother doesn’t find this at all ridiculous, and I learned a long time ago to keep my mouth shut on the topic of her old-car fetish. She can’t keep washer fluid in the reservoir of her car because no plastic reservoir is built to last through 19 years and 275,000 miles. They crack. If you try to repair them (and she has), they crack again. And, if you’re my mom, you just shrug and start carrying around a jug of washer fluid in the trunk.
She’s only driving this 1996 Camry because I bullied her into giving up her 1989 Subaru. It was around 2005, and I had a 5-year-old son and a newborn baby. My mom loved that tuna can of a Subaru, and she loved toting her grandsons around, but I wasn’t happy with the idea of my little boy and my little baby in the backseat of that flimsy thing. So she caved and bought a 9-year-old Camry, which she still says is too big and heavy for her comfort.
Ten years later, I have a 15-year-old son, a 10-year-old son and a mother who will not give up her 19-year-old car. Every year, I drive her home from our annual trip to Florida, and every year there’s a new quirk to accommodate.
“It’s a good car,” she says any time we talk about the possibility that a 19-year-old car is due to be replaced. “It has never once failed to proceed.”
That’s really how she talks. It’s pretty cute. But still. Nineteen years, Mom?
As it happens, I think a lot these days about letting go. My sons are suddenly so grown up and independent. The first time my husband and I went out and left them at home, I felt disoriented and anxious. Now I don’t think twice.
This year I’ve had to stop teaching the university media writing course I loved so much to accommodate a terrific career that requires more of me than I ever predicted. Maybe one day I’ll have time for teaching again, but now is not that time.
This column is next. I’ve been writing it for 13 years – from the time I was barely 30, my older son was a toddler and my younger son was just an idea. I’ve written through the many joys of watching my boys grow up, through the challenges of illness, job loss, new careers and multiple moves.
I’ve loved writing this column, but I think it’s time for something new. Thank you for reading what I wrote, and for all the times you wrote back to let me know how much it meant to you. Y’all have got to be the nicest readers anywhere, and it’s been a privilege to share my stories with you.
Also, if you have any ideas for repairing the washer fluid reservoir in a 19-year-old Camry, I’ll still be around and entertaining ideas.
If you want to continue to read Mary Fortune, go to thirtytensomething.blogspot.com.