Personal Essay: Abigail, My Beloved

I used to have a van. It was an Astro van to be exact. It was perfect – bigger than a car but not as big as the typical “Uncle Chester” van that your parents always warned you about. It was a dark blue van with six stripes of varied widths that wrapped horizontally around the middle. There were a lot of good times in that van. I named it Abigail – Abigail the Astro Van. She was my baby.

I remember the day my parents drove that van into our driveway for the first time. It was new then. The year was 1986. I was so excited, though I was still 759 days away from getting my driver’s permit. I knew one day that glorious piece of machinery would be mine. It was the first new vehicle my parents bought. At last, we weren’t stuck with a piece of junk that would leave us stranded again.

My first memory inside the van was when I played football my sophomore year of high school. Along with some other proud parents, my dad followed the bus to our away games. Before this trip, two teammates and I rode in the van along with him because he brought along a few bags of Angelo’s coneys and cheeseburgers. We ended up sitting out the last three quarters of the game, soon after the lethal combination of month-old-grease and coney sauce created a war within our bellies.

Abby was passed down to me when I became a senior. That’s when the good times rolled. I did everything in that van - eating, sleeping, and other activities that teenage boys like to do. Abby and I were inseparable. For my birthday that year, I had a CD player installed inside of her. I was one of the few people at my school that had a CD player in their vehicle. We skipped school the entire next day and drove around taking advantage of our new toy. We took friends in “school skipping” shifts. Some of us skipped first hour. Then we would take them back to school and pick up a few people who wanted to skip second hour. This went on for the entire day. Abby and I secured a legacy to behold at school that day.

Abby and I went to every Flint Central High School football game during our senior year. Sometimes it was me and a van load of people. Sometimes it was just me and Abby. She never fussed. She was an inspiration to the entire team. I’d like to think that because of her loyalty, our school was inspired to make it to the state semi-finals that season.

Abby saw me through my grunge phase that year, too. When I became enamored by bands like Pearl Jam and Nirvana, Abby was less than enthusiastic about my change, but she always supported my decisions. I think there may have been pinch of jealousy in Abby’s soul. She was afraid I had a second love - one that was above her. She was still a good girl though as she was still willing to take me to my first Lollapalooza.

Abby was with me when I made the long and lonely trek to the University of South Carolina – the school where Hootie and the Blowfish was formed. She was a big fan of Hootie. Whenever a Hootie song came on the stereo, she seemed to run much better and more efficiently. She was extremely proud to take me safely to my first Hootie concert in Cleveland when their shows were sold out in Michigan. Before leaving for the Palmetto State, I parked Abby where she could watch the entire going away party that was being thrown for me. She had a cocky look because she knew she would be the only one to accompany me on my new life journey.

We stayed in South Carolina for awhile before she brought me back home. She didn’t want to leave, though. The warm weather we enjoyed down there did wonders for her engine. Just hours before our departure, she got a flat tire. I fixed her up and explained our reason for leaving. She brought me back with nary a problem.

Abby’s life was not without trouble. We were together when we got into our first major accident when coming home late one night. We were rear-ended as we slowed down to follow the flow of traffic. She was bad that night. I could not even get her to start until the next day. A few months later, she was violated when someone opened her doors and got inside. They ripped out CD player and pillaged all of the CDs, except for the “Twister” soundtrack which was left unharmed lying on the passenger seat.

Abby really wasn’t the same after that night. She still did her job, as any loyal friend would. She acted like it did not bother her, but I knew it did deep down. I tried to fix her up, hoping it would make her feel better. I got her a new stereo. I put stickers all over her on the inside. I burned honeysuckle incense – her favorite scent. On the outside, I painted cartoon pictures on her side windows. She was adorned in Scooby Doo, Yosemite Sam, and the Pink Panther. But the decorations only delayed the inevitable.

Despite the compliments that she received after her makeover, deep in her soul she was still troubled. Her carpet began to wear and fall out, exposing only rusted floorboard. The seats began to tear, exposing the dilapidated cushion inside. The doors creaked when they opened and needed constant lubrication.

She began to stall at red lights. I knew the end was near.

When I decided to let Abby go, I notified all of my friends who had been involved with Abby. The ones who did not call me "crazy" gathered to say good-bye. We took lots of pictures with Abby. group pictures in front of her, on top of her, sitting in the driver’s seat, and so on. Each person got a turn in the driver’s seat – something that Abby had not allowed before. We were saying goodbye to a piece of our history.

In the end, I could only get $100 for her - a trivial amount for something that was priceless to me. The night before she left me, I sat in the familiar driver’s seat and wrote “An Ode to Abby.” A tear rolled down my cheek as I said goodbye to the old broad.