Do you know the episode of Seinfeld where Jerry, unhappy that his car rental arrangement had fallen through, giddily agrees to the insurance, promising the agent that he plans to beat the heck out of the replacement car they gave him? We Mosimans connect hard to that scene. For over thirty years, we have carefully culled the best used cars from the herd and then rode them mercilessly across a desert of decades. Rarely did a vehicle successfully make it to the other side...instead, abandoned along the wilderness trail, among the bison bones, organs, and broken wagon wheels. It is a heart-wrenching business.
But I don't trouble myself with therapists. I have mechanics.
There was Roger who warned me not to take my Ranger over the railroad tracks. Steve who would make sure I was seated before gently listing the problems with my S-10. Most recently, was Andy...a mechanic unfamiliar with my automotive autobiography, who just bluntly told me that he wasn't comfortable with Titan even leaving his lot. I immediately drove Titan to my current therapist, Shane, who agreed that Titan's days were numbered.
Another part of adulting is being able to let things go.
I still have my S-10's gear shift knob on a prominent place on my bookshelf so that, at certain times during the day, a beam of sunlight illuminates it with a heavenly glow. It's about as useful as the size 8 prom gown I wore when I was 17 and the box of canning jars that I hold onto despite the fact that the only blanch I know stars on "The Golden Girls."
I wasn't ready to let Titan go.
Brad Mosiman, on the other hand, had been quietly preparing for this moment for the past three or so years. He had a slide-show presentation ready for me to review fifty possible replacements, of assorted shapes, sizes, and colors, for my beloved truck.
I hated them all.
Titan was fine.
I would just drive slow.
But, depending on your tie rods, the steering wheel of change continues to turn and, before I knew it, we were headed off to pick up our new truck.
Another Titan.
A bold red boy...ready to run wild in Wyoming County.
I didn't want to like him and, sensing that, he remained quiet...a strange silence from the roar of my old fella.
We eased out on the highway and his V8 engine ate up the miles...effortlessly traversing a bridge without his back-end slipping out alarmingly beneath us.
Okay. I liked him.
But I still had one more road left to travel...
"Where are you?" Sydney asked on the phone as I carefully followed my husband to Titan's retirement home. "We're taking Titan to the farm," I shouted over the usual din that filled his cab. Either she couldn't hear me or just didn't understand my subtle reference. "Where?" she yelled. "The salvage yard," I hissed into the phone. I had wanted Titan to enjoy his last ride.
Mere moments later, he began to buck.
I'd been warned about something called a knock sensor but didn't fully understand the ramifications until I was navigating multi-lane traffic, uphill with a truck that had no intention of reaching his final destination. It was at this moment, that it became crystal clear, that we (Brad) had made an astutely intelligent, adult decision.
But we couldn't leave our old friend alone, beside the road.
Brad patiently coaxed him along...a few miles at a time...offering Titan fifteen minute breaks to rest, reflect, and regroup. I followed with prayer and gratitude. I sang parts of praise songs...annoyed and appalled at my lack of repertoire. I realized that I was abysmally ill-equipped to ever survive as a prisoner of war.
As always, Titan got us there.
Brad tried to cheer me up as I reluctantly left my old friend behind. He explained how Titan would now sacrificially donate his workable parts for the betterment of others. How the lives of other Titans would be enhanced and extended because of his selfless contribution. Titan now had a higher purpose than just simply driving me to work and back every day. I nodded...knowing this was true. Titan always came through in the clutch.
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