Lori Borgman
We’ve been trying to sell our nearly 20-year-old SUV. Like most sellers, there are things we say about a used vehicle and things we don’t say.
When an interested buyer asked about mileage, I said, “It has 221,500 miles on it.”
What I didn’t say was that I helped put a lot of those early miles on it with my dad when he bought the Ford Explorer, Eddie Bauer edition, two years after Mom died.
One fall, Dad and I drove Eddie to see his remaining brothers in Nebraska. Our last stop was Beaver City, a small bend in the road where his older brother had been town sheriff before retiring. After a good visit and a lot of strong coffee, we left early the next morning heading south on a two-lane that would lead us into Kansas on our way back to Missouri.
Dad was raised on a farm and forever loved open prairies, lone cottonwoods and hot summer days. There wasn’t another soul or vehicle in sight on that straight-line road. The sun inched over the horizon and spread a peach glow across endless fields.
It was so beautiful that neither of us spoke. We just soaked it in— the morning, the beauty and the silence.
“You’ve sure had this vehicle a long time,” the prospective buyer said.
“We have,” I said.
What I didn’t say is that we tried selling it a while back. We were on our way to a dealership to use it as a trade-in on a new car, but I got all weepy, so my better half turned around and we drove back home.
“How many owners?” the interested party asked.
“Just two. My dad and us,” I said. “He took good care of it and so did we.”
What I didn’t say is that when Dad was recovering from surgery for pancreatic cancer, he mentioned he had started driving again. I said, “Dad, are you sure you’re strong enough to hit those brakes hard if you need to?”
“You should see the skid marks I laid yesterday!” he said with a roar of laughter. He didn’t really lay skid marks, but he thoroughly enjoyed saying he did.
“How’s the sound system?” our potential buyer asked.
“Good,” I said. “The radio works and so does the 6-slot CD player.”
What I didn’t say is that Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys are in slot No. 6 where Dad always kept them. I’ve never taken them out. Won’t somebody be surprised to hit play and hear a lot of whoopin’ and yee-hawin’ and “Bubbles in My Beer.”
The prospective buyer was growing increasingly interested, so I said, “It leaks oil.”
Silence.
Then I said, “Sometimes it sounds like it doesn’t want to shift out of first.”
More silence.
I said, “When it rains hard, water drips through the sunroof down into the beverage cup holders.”
The potential buyer needed time to think about it.
“No hurry,” I said. “We might not even sell it!”
Our son called that night. We’d offered him the vehicle a few days earlier. He said he and his wife would take it.
What our son didn’t say was that he couldn’t stand to see the last remnants of Grandpa disappear either.
“I assume it’s the standard model that comes with country CDs,” he said.
“Check slot No. 6,” I said.
Lori Borgman is a columnist, author and speaker. Contact her at [email protected].
