Enjoy the Ride: To Love's New Owner

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Dear Love’s New Owner,

I hope this letter finds you well.

I don’t mean to disturb you, or distract you from your daily life, as I’m sure your schedule probably doesn’t permit for a long, drawn-out reading of a letter from the former owner of your new car. However, I do ask that you take the next two or three minutes to learn about who you’re getting.

Yes, I said who. No, I’m not delusional.

Sadly, this is no Kirby or Bumble Bee story. Love doesn’t come life, nor does he save the world. But he does do good in this world, he protects what means the world to you, and is there if and when your world comes crashing down.

I got Love on my 15 birthday. At that time, I was just beginning to think about hitting the roads, but the idea of car had rarely, if ever, crossed my mind. By some chance, this white convertible bug was pulled to the front of the Volkswagen of Cool Springs lot just in time for my mom to see it, fall in love, and decide that would be the car that got me through high school and college.

He was hit on his first official day on the road. A stupid, distracted, 18-year-old boy took off his bumper during my cheer practice while he sat patiently parked in the parking lot. Yes, I said parked.

The note left on the windshield read “Sorry for hitting your car… (his phone number) -dumb ass that hit your car.'' To be honest, the sincerity and down right simplicity of the note took away much of my anger.

However, the second time he was hit, that same week, my anger wasn’t diminished so quickly.

Yes, another stupid, distracted, 18-year-old boy knocked his bumper off yet again. The poor guy, though, my whole family, aunts and uncles, grandparents, boyfriend’s parents, boyfriend’s grandparents were in their respective cars in front of me and ALL gave him a stern talking to right then and there.

Ok, actually, the redness of his face made the situation a little better ;)

All bumps aside, this car has been the most constant, stable, and dependent thing through the most inconsistent years of my life.

He was there on my first date. It was to a movie theater with the boy I thought I was going to marry. He dropped me off, and watched me walk more confidently than any girl in those shoes ever should have walked.

He was there when I made my first solid friend group at Harpeth Hall. He was also there on the day we fell apart.

He saw my first kiss, and he saw my first heartbreak. He watched me make varsity squad, and watched me be pushed around in a wheelchair too. He had blood spewed across his door from an awful break-up story. And he had paint from windshield to bumper on senior fun day.

He drove to Steeplechase, without fail, every year we owned him, and was always the car people fought over to ride in. It was at his third Steeplechase that he got his name, “Love Bug”.

The fight for seats didn’t end there, either. No matter the event, whether it was cheer practice, school, a day at the mall, even visiting college towns, everyone wanted to be in the bug.

Though a lot has changed in the years I had him, one thing remained the same: Everyone wanted to be in the bug.

No matter what, the bug was there.

Due to our closeness, people in high school couldn’t help but to associate the bug and I, we were literally one in the same to some. From countless phone calls of “I JUST PASSED YOU DRIVING!” to conversations around town involving “oh I saw a VW bug the other day and thought of you!”. He was a label that I didn’t mind having.

Recently, when the conversation of a much needed safety change came about, I immediately pushed back. Though it’s hard to deny that getting a new car is exhilarating, I had an unsettling ache in my stomach that told me “no”.

Curious as to why it seemed I was the only person in the world that would turn down a new car, I dug into what made him so special. But the question itself holds the answer. He is special because he was always there. Through every moment big or small, I can tie those emotions, memories, laughter, and tears to Love.

It is often taught that the value of something cannot be fully understood until it becomes a memory. Despite having lost loved ones before, I find this moment of parting to have extreme emotions tied to it.

I think that Thomas Rhett’s song “That Old Truck” describes this swarm of emotions best, “I grew up in it, I got stuck in it. I broke up in it, fell in love in it, I made a lifetime full of memories on a half tank of gasoline. I learned just who I wasn’t, and who I wasn’t, in that old  truck.”

I am so lucky to have had a car that didn’t just get me from Point A to Point B, but had a friend that listened to my thoughts, heard my prayers, taught me lessons, and let me enjoy the journey.

So please, for me, take in your journey by always putting the top down, and don’t listen to the “voice control” when it talks to you (she never makes much sense anyway). Remember, the lights aren’t automatic, and the gas tank is on the right.

And most importantly, enjoy the ride.

Xoxo,

Kate