Ode to Homer my Honda

My mother brought you home the month I turned 15.  She named you Homer the Honda, a name I really didn't like at first. But when I told her your name should be changed, she threatened to name you "Harvey," instead. As in Paul Harvey.  She did this only because she knew how I hated Paul Harvey's mono-toned daily radio broadcast.  So I digressed, and the name Homer was here to stay.

My mom first tried to teach me to drive you after she picked me up from a friend's sleep over in a cemetery, where there was no living thing I could kill.  Just expensive tombstones and dead people who might choose to haunt me for the rest of my life for disturbing their peaceful slumber. This was a horrendous idea because my mother has never been able to teach me anything without me having a major meltdown (a point proven every time I ever brought home math homework).

You were with me when I failed my first driver's test.  My nerves getting the better of me, causing me to put the car in reverse instead of drive, and making me jump the curb. An automatic failure before even leaving the parking lot. But Hey! A lack of a driver's license didn't keep me from driving you (without my mother's knowledge or permission). And it certainly didn't keep me from wrecking you outside of Hardee's, after dropping off a job application on one of these joyrides (I didn't get that job-apparently car stealing and car wrecking teenagers aren't great prospectives employees).  Having to tell my mom I stole the car and wrecked it was possibly the worst thing I ever had to tell anyone. But for years afterward, anytime I did something wrong and had to tell my mom, I always was able to tell myself, "It won't be as bad as the time you wrecked the car."

You were my constant companion in college. Accompanying me on my many adventures and misadventures. You took me on that clandestine trip with that boy I liked to New Orleans. And you brought me home early the next morning after the boy had dumped me and left me wondering up and down Bourbon Street all alone. You were there to cart my friends and me around that one time we got the notion to buy a pair of water frogs from Wal-mart at 3 a.m (we named them Bonnie & Clyde). And you were there when we would decide there was nothing more we needed than Olive Garden and Krispee Kreme donuts, so we would pile into you and drive two hours to Tuscaloosa. In fact, it was on one these trips that you earned the nickname armadillo extinguisher, as we hit an unsuspecting armadillo in the middle of the night on a dark country road scaring the bejeesus out of everyone.

The day after graduation, I loaded you up with almost everything I owned, and Adam and I drove you cross country to our new home in California.  Along the way, we stopped at the home of the UFOs, Roswell. N.M,  Flagstaff, A.Z., and the Grand Canyon. And on the final leg of the trip, your front tire sprung a flat, and we were helped by the kindest old man who worked with Triple AAA, who gave us the best marriage advice. 

The other day we took you to the shop, and we found it was going to take $2500 dollars in work to keep you running. Being that you were ten years old, it seemed like an awful lot of money to put into you when we weren't sure how long you could continue to run. So we did what we had to do, and we went to the Honda shop and bought Felix the Red Honda Fit. I couldn't bear to tell you we were trading you in for parts because that would be like telling a child there is no Santa Clause.  You know, frown upon.

So I guess the reign of the Homer the Honda is over, let the reign of Felix the Honda Fit last just as long (and be involved in less accidents).

 

Song of the Day: Christmas Wrappings by The Waitresses