Dear Bitter Butch,

The other day in my van, when exiting a parking lot and joining traffic, I struck a cyclist whom I didn’t see because he was coming at me against traffic from behind a relatively blind corner. (Everybody is fine.) My issue is that the fellow, who was alone, seemed to have a disability of some kind, but which of course I was unfit to identify–perhaps it was only some deafness or a speech impediment, but perhaps he had a major developmental disability or past head trauma. Whatever it is, it seemed relevant to the accident in a couple of ways. . .

Read the rest of my letter and my answer at bitterempire.com.

Today, I took my old 95 Saturn to Newgate School to donate her.

Yes, ‘her.’

I got in the car, started the engine, and proceeded to sob all the way to the school.

Jan and I bought that Saturn brand new in 1995. She took us across the country and back so many times. She took both of our sons home from the hospital after they were born. She took me and my old, dearly departed Shepherd Frodo across the country as well in one of my most happy trips ever. She took my Granddad to see the Mississippi on his last visit to Minneapolis, where he admired my driving skill with a stick shift. She made me look good.

She took us to the hospital when we were hurting, and our kids to school when they needed a ride. She took us camping and to concerts and on visits and to work.

She can’t reach highway speeds anymore; she spews terrible blue smoke into my neighbor’s lungs when I drive her. Half of her muffler is missing. Her clutch is going; her shocks are shot.

I walked into the office, eyes red, sniffling. “I have a car to dona-blaaaaawwwwwwhrrrrrghte” I said, and they pulled out the paperwork and looked at me compassionately.

“Do other people cry?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Sometimes they do. Sometimes they kick the car as they leave. Everyone’s different.” She patted the key reassuringly.

So much emotion over this dear old car.

I signed things, and I cried some more, and a delivery guy sort of laughed with me about it, and then I went out to her and took my bicycle out, gave her a furtive little kiss on the corner of the trunk, and biked off to work.

She sat in the parking lot all alone.

Goodbye, little Saturn. You done good.