I dedicate the following to anyone who has ever loved…a car.

We didn't want to give you up. We really didn’t. I hope you believe us. We did everything we could to keep you in our lives for as long as we could. Longer than most would do for their automobiles. Two decades is a long time in car years. But like beloved family members, or best friends. Or pets. The time together is never long enough. Never mind that your undercarriage was rusted out. Who would look? Never mind the AC stopped working. We opened the windows and the breezes sufficed. Never mind that the oil leaked out on to the garage floor, caught on a cardboard pad that we’d periodically replace. So what’s a little incontinence? Do you discard a person just because the body is slowly breaking down? 

From that first day back in December, 2005, we felt we were made for each other. There was no period of adjustment. No ramp-up time needed to acclimate ourselves to your cabin. We instantly felt at home. You weren’t an automobile. You were an extension of ourselves. Smart looking, if I may. Comfortable to be with. Classy, but not flashy. You were us! Whenever I approached you or saw you approaching me, I swelled with pride. You were immediately identifiable from a distance, with your pert, Mona Lisa-smile grill – unlike today’s grills, designed to look like mad dogs with mouths wide open, bearing their fangs. And your color! It stood out from any other on the road. “Parchment” it was called. Whether in a parking lot or parked along the street, we could pick you out in an instant. Like us in Nashville, you did not blend.

Your features? They were ahead of their time – at the time: There was the “beep beep” parking assist that has become rare in today’s autos. Living with it for 20 years, we now can’t – won’t -- live without it. It has been a “must” for our next car. There was the robotic-looking cup holder that stayed camouflaged within the dash, yet with a gentle prod, appeared gracefully, silently unfolding its slender arm. So cool! So Scandinavian! There were power seats on both driver and passenger side, operating in six different positions – including up and down – even for the passenger! And yes, embedded in its rearview mirror, it even had a compass – something today’s cars can no longer accommodate, due to all the electronics interfering with the Earth’s magnetic field. It all made so much smart sense. Not surprising, considering Saab’s aviation pedigree. 

Our sweet Saab. Our home on the road. Like any home, when you leave it, memories start flooding in. But cars are special in that everything goes on in a confined, enclosed space. Conversations are carefree as you pass city streets and country lanes. Eyes on the road, talk flows like streams of consciousness, or as Ken would call it, streams of unconsciousness. And when we embarked on our songwriting journey, I’d sing my songs to Ken and he'd react exactly as I’d hope. To Something Done – bursting out with, “Oh, that’s fantastic!” And I Bought a Gun Today – “Who ARE you???” and Falling – “Moody. You’ve literally captured the act of falling – but in love!” One of the best memories of all was sitting in the Jewel parking lot, coming up with lines to the second verse of Beautiful Place – “Every night’s a date night…an I-can’t-wait night…Eating Popeye’s chicken…in our little kitchen.” Top of the world, ma! 

So often I was alone in the car when lyrics popped in my head – (You’re Still There) “Buy a bunch of lacy push-up bras…Drown my sorrows in Häagen-Dazs.” And (Watershed Moments)  “I recall when you were three-foot tall, asking me to dance” as I exited the parking lot at Treasure Island. And as I parked in the Old Orchard parking lot, (Party in the Back)  “Got the old man smilin’ like I knew he would, Boss high-fivin’, it’s all good”). And so many more.

It was always special showing our new cars to our Moms and Dad. I wish Mom could have seen the Saab. She would have loved everything about it, the color, the sophisticated shape – saying how gorgeous and “smart-looking” it was. But I know she was with us in spirit when we’d drive Dad and Mom-in-Law Adrienne everywhere, talking non-stop as we’d travel out to Judy and Dan’s. Or to doctor appointments. Or wherever they wished to go. After Dad willingly gave up the keys to his cherished 1989 Lincoln Town Car, I’d love taking him shopping at Jewel, where he chided me for walking slower than his swiftly striding 94-year-old-legs. I’d take him to the post office (he never trusted mailboxes), and to his favorite hangout, the hardware store, always eager to rummage through the sales bins or search for a gadget to add to his already overcrowded workshop, or I should say, his tool emporium. 

The Saab. Memories. A part of our little family. After a long and reluctant search, we finally found our new car, a Nissan Sentra. Shiny black with “cappuccino” leather interior. It is, admittedly, gorgeous. It has the rare “beep beep.” Yay! A driver’s power seat – not the passenger’s seat, but it is raised high enough so I could see over the dash. Sitting in its cabin surrounded by all the computerized features made me feel like Rumpelstiltskin having just woken up in a new, almost foreign technological age. Hopefully, we’ll get used to it. But we couldn’t help getting emotional about it. 

As our Saab was parked at the dealership behind the bars of a wrought iron fence, I was hoping it couldn’t see us, standing by our new Sentra. I can’t imagine how it must’ve felt. An old, favorite dog being replaced by a frisky young pup. I hope it didn’t look as we drove away. And I pray, how I pray, it found a new home. Someone who will fix it up. And love it and care for it like we did.

Love, your daddy and mommy, 

Ken & Laura 

-- Laura Stigler