People who attach names to their automobiles are making a big mistake. It may sound cute at the time to christen your car Fred, Old Faithful or Orlow, but from that moment on it takes on human qualities. You can never again be objective about its place in your life or its future. As for ever getting rid of it, forget it. It's like putting your mother adrift at sea on a floating iceberg.
I prefer a car that knows its place, which is anywhere I want it to be. Yet I have known people to climb out of a warm bed at midnight when they hear thunder and say, "Good grief, I better get Liz in the garage where it's dry."A friend of mine mothers her car as though she is raising a virgin near a Navy base. She will allow no one near it because no one understands and appreciates it as she does. Her husband drove it once, and when he inadvertently stripped the gears, she leaned over, turned off the motor and shouted, "You will never violate Viola again. Get out!"
The scary part is that cars sense this. They become like spoiled children - self-centered, demanding and confident. They can idle raggy at the traffic light and die, and their owner will forgive them for it. They can refuse to turn over first thing in the morning, and so what! They can pig out on oil and gasoline and still have a place in the garage.
They're not stupid. Didn't their master buy them personalized license plates, cover their dashboard with fur, attach a plastic flower on their antenna? They could stall every night in traffic and their owner would still make payments on sheepskin seat covers from New Zealand.
I named my kids and pets, but I drew the line at my car. Yet I used the same formula with them: love and fear. Neither kids, pets nor car knew what I was going to do next. Just when they thought they were secure, I'd mention selling them. They were never quite sure when I was kidding and when I wasn't.
My husband had a car he considered to be a member of the family. He called it Max. Max should have been owned by a garage mechanic. There wasn't a week that Max didn't ping, sputter, rattle or cough. Something always dragged on the ground or needed fixing under the hood. I figured out once that Max alone was supporting five auto-parts dealers who had retired to Hilton Head. When you talked about "unloading" Max, my husband would become physically ill. He knew Max would give him 100,000 miles. Actually Max did, but not without a price.
On the day my husband traded Max, I told him that he was crazed with the humanness of that stupid car. He denied it, "You don't understand, Edna," he said.
"That's Erma," I corrected.