end of an era

As I was writing that last post, DH said, out of the blue, "I'm giving my car away tomorrow."

He has this beat up, rusted out, doesn't-even-run '78 Toyota Celica Hatchback. This car is not in good shape. It's got three clocks and two radios in it - none of which work. The back seat folds down, which is a good thing because that's the only thing propping up the driver's seat. Gas fumes leak up through the floor boards. For a while there, the driver's side door would fly open while in motion, which was especially scary on the freeway. The air doesn't work. You have to prop up the hatchback with a stick. For the past three years, it's been parked in the alley behind the house, and someone tagged it. Finally, we got a letter from the city that we had a set amount of time to remove it from sight, or we'd be fined.

I have hated this car. I've asked him to get rid of it for years. We have two other, operational cars. But. I understand the sentimental significance of this car to him. His First. One of the few happy memories of his family from when he was growing up. One of the very few momentos he has of his childhood. This is the first car DH ever had. He remembers going to buy it brand new with his family. It got him through college, through a move to Portland and back, through job changes and family changes and changes of address. It's been painted, had its plates changed at least three times (from moving out of state and back), and was the only way we could get around when we first started our long-distance relationship and I went to visit him in his neck of the woods.

He is donating it to an animal rescue group. They will come tomorrow morning and tow it away to be sold as scrap. So tonight he cleaned it out.

I think his heart is breaking. I have rarely seen him cry, but tonight when I went to give him a hug I could feel him shaking and hear him sniffing. I asked him if he wanted to keep any part of it, rip off a side mirror or keep one of the plates, some souvenir. I have some pictures from when I submitted it to that show where they take someone's car and pimp it out. I could make him a scrapbook, or a shadow box. He knows that it isn't the car so much as the memories, but that isn't making it any easier to give it up. And he's sad that it will never be driven again.

He used to harbor the thought of fixing it up. But he's not a motorhead by any means, he's a computer geek. And though he could probably pay someone to fix it up for him, there are things he'd rather do with his money. Like build a home theater system. If he was ever going to do something with it, I'd say let's clear out the garage tonight and wheel it in. But he will never do anything with it. And he knows that himself.

I feel so bad for him right now. I can't reach him, can't comfort him, can't help make this better. I'm really glad that I never pushed too hard for him to get rid of it - if I had caused this, I couldn't live with myself. Not that this is in any way about me, but I'm glad that the City is the Bad Guy in this one.

Mostly, though, I wish I knew what to say, how to help him with this. I wish there was some way I could make it easier on him. All I can do is let him mourn, and be there for him.