A Tribute to Cynthia the Civic
Today, I said goodbye to Cynthia, my faithful 1997 Honda Civic.
I purchased her in 2001 on a sunny day at a used-car lot in eastern Washington. The car salesman was almost a caricature of his profession, with greased-back hair, a dingy office, and a clammy handshake, but I liked the car so much I bought it anyway. She was perfect: a gently used, reliable little 2-door coupe with a peppy 5-speed transmission, silver paint, and even a moonroof and CD player. I wonder if I’d have felt differently driving away from the lot if I knew then what I do now: that this unassuming Japanese-made compact would be my companion for the next twenty-two years.
Despite her diminutive size, Cynthia’s first real gig was to be a Moving Van. Shortly after purchasing her, I managed to pack all my worldly belongings into her after folding down her seats, and I moved out of my parents’ house, driving south from Washington State to my new graduate school in California, experiencing my first true taste of adult freedom as I wound my way, alone in my new car, down Interstate 5.
After moving to Davis, I started dating a girl in Yuba City, an hour each way without traffic, and I filled the endless, starlit late-night drives in my fuel-efficient Honda with hours of Coast to Coast AM with George Noory and the Star Wars radio dramatization. Cynthia’s job was now Long Distance Relationship Conveyance, and her mileage went up, and up, but she never complained. Late one night, on a long stretch of empty highway, I decided to test Cynthia’s top speed. I got her up to about 92 before the shaking became unbearable.
I broke up with the girl from Yuba City. I finished grad school. I moved back to Washington State. Cynthia’s title changed to Commuter Car: day in and day out, she carried me faithfully to and from my first grown-up, non-internship job, as a software engineer for Microsoft. Brightly colored corporate parking permits dangled from her rear-view mirror; like leaves, their hues changed every year.
Cynthia was by my side the moment I met Kelly, the woman who would become my wife. She carried us to and from our dates, and it was Kelly who christened her “Cynthia the Civic” – a fitting companion to Carl, her Subaru. Kelly and I got married, and we parked our cars side by side in the garage, and Cynthia grew old while our kids grew up, performing in her final role: Unlikely Family Car. We wrestled bulky car seats into her back seats, and I felt ashamed as I quietly wished she had 4 doors instead of 2. She brought our youngest child (now 4 years old) home from the hospital. Sometimes, on sunny days, the kids would ask if they could listen to music in Daddy’s Car, and we’d roll down the windows and crank up the stereo and play Frozen or something. I let them sit in the driver’s seat and wiggle the shifter.
In all of our adventures together, she never once broke down while driving, though occasionally she failed to start. Towards the end of her life she developed a Personality, as many older vehicles do: she acquired an unpleasant habit of eating distributors, and her seals leaked, and she burned oil, and only one window really rolled down, and most of her climate controls’ lighting wouldn’t work unless given a hearty thump in the correct location. But she always, always got me where I needed to go.
It is not likely I will ever own a car for twenty years again. They don’t make them like that any more. Cynthia was special. She is there, quiet and unassuming in the background, in most of my life’s happiest and best memories.
I’ll miss her greatly.
