Farewell to a Mustang

All first cars are beautiful. It doesn't matter if you're driving Daddy's Mercedes or an AMC Gremlin you scrimped and saved to buy yourself -- the machine that gives you great freedom of movement when you are young and wild is always a cherished thing.

My first car was a 1971 Mustang. It was school bus yellow, with racing stripes down the sides. Sleek. Huge. It looked so much like the women's car in "Deathproof" that when I first saw the movie I had to call Dad and talk about the car.

The 1972 Mustang from "Deathproof." Pretty pretty car.

The hood was a mile long. And the car was all metal. Heavy. Safe. A glorious, shiny, sexy fortress on wheels. And it was mine.

But before it was mine, it was my mother's. She bought it brand new the year before I was born. I have always looked at that car as lasting proof that at some point, Mom was incredibly cool.

When Mom was in labor with me, she and Dad climbed into the Mustang and drove to the hospital. (None of us knows how on earth a woman 9 months pregnant managed to get in and out of a car that low-slung, but she did.) After I was born, all three of us piled into the Mustang and it took us home.

It wasn't just my first car -- it was my first car from birth.

I can't even begin to speak to all the memories I have of driving that car -- it's where I was sitting when I first met many of the people I'm friends with now. It drove us around on our high-school quests for cheap fun. One day we crammed 9 people into it and went to the river for lunch. One night I drag-raced the then-mayor's son and beat him. At least two people I was friends with had sex in the back seat. It has stories to tell.

That Mustang had very nearly surpassed its mechanical limits when I became its driver, and so it seemed like something was always broken on it. The guys in high school who preferred Chevrolets used to tease me with the typical Ford jokes -- "Found On Road Dead," "Fixed Or Repaired Daily" -- and I laughed good-naturedly, but even when it was living down to expectations I never stopped loving that car. And we never sold the car. Mom's initial ownership of it, Dad's love for mechanical puzzles and my passion for that car led us to hang onto it probably longer than we should. It has been sitting in my parents' driveway, immobile (Found On Road Dead one time too many), for nigh on 15 years.

My '71 Stang. Farewell, my friend. 

This evening, I went over to my parents' house to sign the Mustang's title so Dad could sell it to a young man down the street who wants to fix it up. I had to fight to keep from crying as I did it, but I knew that it was for the best. I don't have the money to get it fixed -- pretty much the only functional parts are the radio, the engine and the transmission -- and Dad doesn't have the time to do any work on it. This guy will take care of her and, hopefully, come to love her as much as I do.

It wasn't until after I got home, bawled for half an hour, went over to a friend's house to think and talk about it, and came home and bawled some more that I realized the best thing about that old Mustang: It taught me how to love something that's broken. It never mattered if the carburetor was messed up or one of the pistons stopped firing or the electrical system was acting wonky -- I never stopped loving that car. Even after it broke down the last time and Dad and I weren't sure whether or how to fix it, I still loved it. I still love it now.

And after teaching me how to love broken things, my old Mustang is teaching me how to let go.

Of Love and Loss

Tom, also known as Tommy the Cat, 
Major Tom, Thomas A Cattus and Meowsolini

I knew it had been a while since I last posted, but until a friend and reader mentioned it I didn't realize that my last post was in August. Good heavens. I know why, though. A couple of weeks after my last blog post, my dear orange tabby cat Tom died. He was the most human cat I have ever known. He had a habit of waving at me or tapping me on the shoulder. And he was a chatty cat -- he had long conversations with my housemate and me. He loved to snuggle, too, and I remember the last time I asked him if he loved me, he meowed once and put his paw on my arm. He died here at home, in my arms, and I had him cremated. In honor of his talent for waving at me, I have a golden Maneki Neko coin bank on top of his box of ashes, like a tombstone.

About a week after Tom died, one of my best friends lost her mother to cancer. That was hard for a lot of people in a lot of ways. Her mother was a talented, generous, loving, bright soul who touched a lot of lives. The memorial service for her was a fitting celebration of her life, with music and food and people sharing stories and laughing and crying together in a room filled with her creations -- blankets and moppets she'd crocheted, photos, things she'd written, and memories that her friends and loved ones shared. Memories are among the beautiful things people create for each other.

That same month, an old friend of mine died. We hadn't seen each other in at least a decade but when we were close, he was very kind and supportive when I needed someone to be kind and supportive, and I've never forgotten it. I rode to Wharton with a couple of other friends to attend the memorial service.

October is my birth month, and though I did a lot of self-pampering, I didn't feel much like celebrating. I have a pinata sitting in my front room that I had thought about filling with candy and tiny bottles of liquor and inviting people over for a party, but losing my eldest fur-baby and two dear friends knocked the wind out of my sails. Then we had what I think was our second hundred-year flood this year, damaging homes that were just beginning to come back together after the floods over Memorial Day weekend.

The bar's red door ain't dere no more. 

In November, the news broke that Triple Crown, our beloved watering hole and the live music capital of San Marcos, would be closing in December to relocate, though when and where the new place will open is still unknown.

Beyond being a fine music venue that offered the best quality and best variety of bands I have ever seen, Triple Crown was kind of the glue that held the community of musicians and artists and bohemians of various sorts together. If you wanted to see people you knew, that's where you went. Without that central spot, that nucleus, holding us together, most of us are now communicating with each other through Facebook, like savages, although there have been a few outings and gatherings of Triple Crown folk so we can hang out live and in person. The Lost Tribe of the Triple Crown awaits the opening of the shiny new incarnation of our home.

"You shall love your crooked neighbor
with your crooked heart." - W.H. Auden

Through all of this, the one thing that has held me up -- that has held up my friends and other members of my community -- is love. The love we have for our town, our community, each other -- the basic human decency and compassion that comes to the surface during times of loss and need. I'm immensely grateful that San Marcos is full of that kind of love. Love is what forms the bond between human and pet, and simply having an animal to love unconditionally is a wonderful gift. Love is what brought friends and family together to celebrate my friend's mother's life and all of her wonderful gifts. Love is what inspired some friends and I to pile into a car and drive all the way to Wharton to say goodbye to a good man. Love is what motivated people to help their flooded neighbors. Love is what keeps local musicians going out to the pile of bricks formerly known as the Triple Crown and playing music there to keep the bar's streak of consecutive days of live music alive. (Yes, that is actually happening.)

What I've seen and experienced in the last few months has given me the shocking idea that even in the worst of times, nobody ever has to be totally alone.