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Great week this week everyone. Some nice looks from Dorf (welcome to the win column) and Nomads - Both seem to be
returning to form. Let's see if it sticks.
Can I get personal for a second? This past weekend marked a very important milestone in my life: The death of my first car.
As many of you know, for the last years (read: since I was 16) I have driven a 1990
(purchased in 1989) Mitsubishi Eclipse. It was red, with black accents – a nice stripe
on each side, and the back and front bumper. The license plate was simple: WZG-796.
My mother purchased this car when I was 10, getting rid of a car she had had for six
years. Now most 10 year olds don’t think about what car they will get when they are 16,
but my brother had just turned 16 the previous October and received a nice hand me
down Honda Accord. So when this beautiful sportscar entered my garage for the first
time, the thought about when my mother would want a new one, and the fact that – by
being the third child – I was going to get a hand me down, only one thought came to
mind: This is my car.
Of course, on my 16th birthday, that didn’t happen so easily. Determined to not satisfy my thirst to drive the day I hit the ripe
old age of 16, my father made me wait a month to get my license. Meanwhile, the Eclipse had been handed down – but not to
me. It went to my brother Adam, who’s Honda Accord had met an unpleasant fate when crumpled between a Mercedes and a
Flower Delivery Truck during Rosh Hashanah services (for those of you wondering, yes the German-made Mercedes survived
with minimal scratches).
When I finally passed my driving test (on the first try, I might add), I got handed my Grandfathers Chrysler Lebaron. It was red,
but more of a “rust red” than a nice cherry red. The Lebaron made it less than a year with me. After noticing some odd noises,
I took the car in to be checked by Al (serving Howard County since 1977). Al called back a few hours later with the diagnosis: A
Carbon Dioxide leak was seeping into the car and slowly killing the driver. My father, with all the heart of a pinecone said, “Ok,
just do an oil change and we’ll come pick it up.” Luckily Al knew this wasn’t a good idea. “No, you don’t understand,” he said,
“this car won’t make it through another oil change. If it was a horse, I would tell you to take it around back and put a bullet in
it.” The next day, Goodwill came and took the car away (isn’t that nice – we gave it to charity)
Adam, who had moved home the previous year after, was about to start helping out in the family business. Since he had
graduated the previous year from Frostburg (for those of you good at math… well then you’re not Adam, and you understand
why his schooling took a few more years), my parents decided to help him buy his first car: a silver Honda Del Sol. It was a
beautiful car: The roof came off (to be stored in the trunk), the back window rolled down and it was smaller than a VCR. Sure,
in order to save buck, Adam got it without air conditioning (a choice he would later regret), but that thing was nice.
Of course, in all of this, I was handed the keys to my Eclipse (or “Eclispe”– when my mom got the car, my father gave her an
engraved keychain that read “Judi’s Eclispe”… I wonder if we still have that keychain…). It was unreal. I had gone from a
broken down Lebaron that was slowly killing me – one that I had decorated with fuzzy dice, a dancing hula girl, and a ‘faux’ fur
steering wheel cover – to a red sportscar. And I was still in High School.
The Eclipse was a great car: A standard gear shift allowed the driver to have full control over the car; the seat belts were hung
from the ceiling and automatically came back when you closed the door; the hatchback was perfect for putting the back seats
down and putting a lot of stuff in the car (or making out); the dashboard surrounded the driver and made you feel like you were
in a cockpit of a plane; the lights popped up when needed, and shifted back comfortably into the car when they were off; a in-
car cell phone had been installed, with phone receiver and cord; it fit two comfortably, four uncomfortably and six (yes, six)
VERY uncomfortably.
For the next few years, I drove it all over Columbia. It was my ride and no one else’s. I would take it to school and back every
day. My senior year, I had an internship with the Howard County Chamber of Commerce. I would hop in my car after school (I
got to leave a little early), stop by McDonald’s and get a #2 Value Meal (that would be two cheeseburgers, fries and coke) and
then drive with my knee to work. It was the best.
During High School, I treated the car with a lot of TLC (it helped that Daddy paid for the gas card, which meant “free” gas, “free”
car washes and “free” convenience store food). One day I remember brining in my cup holder, which resided in the arm rest
and often got dirty. After cleaning it out, I left it to dry on the counter. Thinking it was junk (didn’t our parents think everything
we had was junk in High School), my father threw it out. This simple, 10 second act, lead to three months of me in every junk
yard in Maryland. I checked old Eclipses, old Plymouth Lasers and anything else that looked like my car. One day, as my
attempts to replace my cup holders grew more and more aggravating, I went downstairs to find that my father had gone to
McDonald’s, purchased a “Super Size” cup and made me a holder that would fit perfectly in my car. After that, I never looked
for a cup holder again, and even had I found it, I probably wouldn’t have used it.
Then there was my first accident: One beautiful fall afternoon, my friends (five of us in total) and I crammed in the Eclipse and
drove 35 minutes to the Maryland Renaissance Festival in Crownsville, Maryland. My friend Adam the Actor was performing that
day and we wanted to wish him luck. Several hours and turkey legs later, we left the festival poorer, muddier and with a
commemorative mug.
On the way back, I was telling my friends a joke I had heard recently. While telling them I briefly looked into my rear view mirror
to see them when all of a sudden my car started to move out of control. Apparently I had failed to realize that a curve was
coming up and instead of driving with the curve, I hit the median. We skidded along for maybe 25 – 40 feet, because I finally
brought the car to a stop.
In the front with me – and holding my commemorative mug – was my then girlfriend Stacy. After checking on her (the mug left a
nice bruise on her forehead) and then everyone else, we popped out of the car. The damage: Two blown tires, some axel
issues and minor body damage (some scrapes). After moving the car off the road, the cops finally arrived. The assessed the
car and called us a tow truck. The funny part is that I hit the curve outside of Fort Meade, a big military base in between
Columbia (where I grew up) and Crownsville. Apparently hitting this curb required an MP to come out and inspect the curb to
make sure that my car had not done damage to their curb. Luckily it didn’t. We waited in the dark for an hour or so for the tow
truck. In that time, we retrieved my hub caps, my friend Tina had an awakening (“Life’s too short” I recall her saying before
bursting into tears for what seemed like the zillionth time), and I sat with my Eclipse. When the tow truck finally came, I can
remember watching my car be pulled up onto the tow trucks bed, its two blown wheels causing the car to lay to her left side. It
was a very sad moment and one that I can still remember as if it happened yesterday.
My next door neighbors, the Boonshafts, showed up in my parent’s absence (they were on vacation). All five of us piled in the
car, and one by one the Boonshafts dropped us off at our respective homes. Then we went to Al’s and saw the car. The
damage was bad, but not life threatening – she would be fine and good as new in a week.
In ’97 I went to college. Of course Syracuse had a policy that Freshmen could not have cars on campus (a ridiculous concept
when you realize that the biggest garage on campus lived right under not one, but two Freshman dorms). Technically, I couldn’
t bring it back until after Spring Break, but after driving to Syracuse a few times (at six hours a pop), Mom and Dad agreed to
send a letter to the school demanding I be allowed my car. In January 1998, the Eclipse made it’s first of many trips to
Syracuse.
Over the years, there has been a lot of talk about the lack of space in my car. Yet, every summer, I would put down the back
seats, throw in virtually my entire dorm room and head back to Maryland. She always had plenty of room for me.
Syracuse left me with – as my brother likes to call it – a “great story.” During the Spring semester of my Junior year, I was
dating a girl named Emily. Emily was a mere 16 and I was 19. We had a nice relationship, but since Emily lived in Columbia,
Maryland with her parents, most of it was spent apart. One day, surfing the internet, we found a cheap flight to Buffalo (just a
two and a half hour drive west of Syracuse). I, of course, was going to drive the Eclipse to pick her up and bring her back to
Syracuse.
I hopped in my car that night around 6pm and got on the New York Turnpike (I-90) to pick her up. It was a dark night, and for
those of you who have been on I-90, you know that it has virtually no road lights. About 45 minutes into the drive, I passed
Rochester. As I went by, I recall just passing Exit 43 (who knows if that’s right or not) when something presented itself in my left
lane. It was a deer.
I swerved to the right to avoid it, but it was too late. The deer hit my car on the left hand driver’s side, slamming its head into my
windshield and its body into my door. The glass from the driver’s window shattered on me and the car spun out of control. I
looked down to see that my door had flung open and the car was moving wildly on the road. Finally, the car went off road to the
left, coming in backwards into a ditch. Once the car stopped, I jumped out. My legs were shaking, and my face felt like it had
small tingles on it.
At this point, just a few seconds after I got out of the car, a beautiful new, very clean, white pickup truck pulled over to the side
of the room. A man and his wife got out of the car and asked it I was ok and that they had seen what happened and had
phoned 911 for me. I thanked them and took a big gulp of air. Then he asked me, “Do you want the deer?”
Besides the obvious stunned notion most people would have to this comment, a few other thoughts went through my head: No, I
don’t want the deer and if I did, where am I going to put him? Do you not see my car?
After a cordial no, the man asked if he could have it. I, of course, agreed.
He and his wife walked off into the distance and a few minutes later a police
officer arrived. He took down my information and called a tow truck for me.
A few minutes later, the man in the white pickup truck and his wife reappeared,
dragging a deer with them by his antlers. Passing by me and the cop, the
man made sure the cop was ok with him taking the deer (apparently
appropriate deer rules state that the person who killed the deer has “dibs,”
followed by the first officer on the scene, followed by the first civilian on the
scene – who knew?). The cop was just fine
Now, I can’t tell you if my hitting the deer killed it or not. What I can tell you
is that the Eclipse definitely did some damage to the buck. There was a clear
gash in his neck, but I have always assumed that the car merely injured the animal. It is my guess that the man did the final kill.
This is where it gets “icky”: The man and his wife drag the deer to the back of their white pick up truck, but the two of them can’t
seem to lift the buck. Seeing that their efforts are futile, the man decides that they have to decrease the weight of the deer. He
and his wife then dragged the deer around to the front of the car. The man turned on his headlights, and with his wife holding
one of the deer’s legs in the air, he proceeded to gut the deer on the side of the New York Turnpike with his Swiss Army knife.
After the “cleaning,” the man and his wife threw the deer in the bay of the truck. The man went to his side of the car and wiped
the deer blood from his hands. His wife, meanwhile, went to her side of the truck, bent over, and threw up. Concerned for her, I
asked if she was ok, to which she replied “Yeah. Must have been something I smelled.” Yeah, like a deer’s insides.
Eventually a tow truck came and dropped me off at a McDonald’s on the outskirts of Rochester. I called my friend Jason and
begged him to come get me – which of course, also meant driving me to Buffalo to get Emily. Jason agreed and in his rush to
get me, got a speeding ticket (which I offered to pay, but he refused).
We picked up Emily around midnight at the Buffalo airport. She had been worried sick and was about to start yelling at me
when she saw my face. A quick story later and we were on our way back to Syracuse.
For the record, my face was fine. The glass was the kind that when it breaks it comes in small shards so as to not injure
someone. I definitely had some cuts, but no gashes, no stitches needed. I was in much better shape than the car: When my
friend Julie and I visited the Eclipse at the mechanic in Syracuse (where we had the car towed a few days later), she was in bad
shape. The windshield was smashed, the driver side door was gone, and the car was covered in glass.
The morning after the crash, I got several calls from family members who had heard that I was in an accident from my mom.
Most of them, after hearing the story, were happy to hear I was ok. That is everyone but my brother Adam: Upon hearing the
story of the “deer incident,” he stayed quiet for a short time before erupting with, “That is awesome! You now have a great story
to tell!” Years later, I still do.
A week later our insurance company called. The car was going to be junked – it had $3,500 worth of damage, and after 10
years, the car’s value was below $3,000. After a few minutes, I asked the insurance company if they could give me the $3,000,
not junk the car, and I would pay the difference. He said no, but offered to look into it. An hour later I got the call, the money
and my car back.
As they always say after an accident, the car was never the same. The replacement door never worked great. In fact when
they replaced it, for some reason the replacement didn’t have a door handle, so they used one from a different car. It was the
wrong color and the wrong fit. The windshield also wasn’t perfect, with the lining between the shield and the roof curling up a
few days afterwards. Even the left flip-up light – which took a beating – always drooped a little lower than the right. But the
Eclipse continued to get me back and forth from Syracuse and continued to be a great car.
In 2001, I accepted a job and moved to New York City. New York is not the ideal place for a car, but I tried to make it work. I left
the car in Long Island with my sister-in-laws parents for a few months. One time, after a few weeks of non-use, I went to
retrieve it only to find out the battery had gone dead. At that point, I decided it was time to return it to Maryland.
And so I went alone in New York. At least once a month I came home to Maryland, and the Eclipse was always there for me.
Since the car was a little old, my father would drive it from time to time. Sometimes he did too much with the car, like the time he
removed the car phone from the car (it hadn’t had service in years, but it was always nice to have there).
A few years ago, I started dating Stephanie and on one trip home, we decided to bring the car back to New York. We had just
spent close to $150 on Amtrak tickets to Maryland and were going to do it again the following weekend for my nieces birthday
party, when we decided to drive the Eclipse back. Instead of buying two roundtrip tickets over the course of two weekends, we
took the train down and brought the Eclipse back. The plan was to drive it down to Maryland the following weekend and then
take the train back. Only we never did. Realizing that we could leave it with her family in Queens, Stephanie and I decided to
leave the car in New York and just be conscious to drive it every few weeks so the battery – and more importantly the engine –
didn’t die. That was November 2004.
In January 2005, the Eclipse became almost vital to me. It was right after New Years when Stephanie started to complain about
a pain in her side. We both thought nothing of it, but when she almost fainted while getting on a bus one day, I insisted she see
a doctor (my threat: I would out our relationship to our co-workers who didn’t know). As a native of Queens, Stephanie headed
out to Long Island Jewish Medical Center to see her doctor. It turns out that she had an enflamed appendix and needed it
removed immediately. What we would later find out was that the appendix was perforated and was leaking toxins into her body.
She had two surgeries over the course of two months: One to remove her appendix and one to remove the infection from the
toxins.
Stephanie being in Queens made it difficult for me to see her in the hospital. But having the Eclipse afforded me the ability to
go and see her every weekend and on weekday nights. Without the Eclipse, it would have been a long two months and I would
not have been there to support her, and help her mom take care of whatever items Stephanie needed.
The Eclipse has stayed with us in New York since, mainly in Queens. Whenever we have a weeding or anything out of town,
Steph and I would go to Queens on Thursday night, drive the car back into the city and then leave on Friday. We did this for a
few years.
Of course, time had taken it’s toll on the Eclipse. The windshield developed a small
leak that would sometimes leave my seat wet after a heavy rainstorm; the black side
stripping on the outside started to peel off, until eventually I had to pull it off for fear of
dragging rubber stripping on the highway; one of the air pumps used to hold up the
hatchback broke, thus creating the need for a stick to hold up the trunk; the headlights
stopped retracting when I turned off the lights, and even after I stopped lowering the
lights, gravity slowly made them get lower and lower; the roof was slowly peeling off
and hanging low, held up by only a few thumb tact’s; it had a nasty oil leak, and would
often have white smoke coming from the tailpipe – an indication it was burning oil; the
air-conditioning stopped working; and then the inevitable happened.
My father insisted I come before the end of July 2006 to make sure my car passed its emissions test. I had a free weekend, so I
hopped in the car and headed home. When I arrived that Friday, my father suggested I meet him at the emissions test, rather
than wait until Saturday. We meet there and I pulled my car in to be tested. I was greeted by a member of the Maryland DMV
who said that he would not and could not test me – apparently my car was smoking and the smoke would hurt their equipment.
He gave me a four month extension and told me to get the car fixed. The next morning my father and I dropped the car off with
Al. He called four hours later with the news.
After 17 years and 190,000 plus miles, the Eclipse needed a new engine. The cost: $3,000. The Eclipse had run its course.
I drove the car back to New York that Sunday, and the car drove fine. Over the course the of the next few weeks, I drove to the
car whenever I could: to Draft Weekend in Atlantic City, to Labor Day Weekend in Deep Creek Lake, Maryland, to my brother’s
house in Connecticut. Every trip I thought would be its last – but she never gave me any issues.
Then I received a call from my brother Adam: He and his wife had bought a new car and – for
a small price – he would sell me his 2001 Nissan Xtera. It was a good price and the car wasn’t
overly used – just 97,000 miles in five years. With the Eclipse on its last “leg,” it was an offer I
could not refuse.
This past weekend was Yom Kippur weekend. Stephanie and I went down to Maryland to spend
it with family. We rode down in the Eclipse.
On Monday, I cleaned out the car and took some photos. On Tuesday, I got in the Xtera, looked
at the Eclipse one last time, and then watched it fade away through my rear view mirror.
The Eclipse ended with 195,355 miles and 17 years of service. She had three different “owners,”
people who claimed the car as “theirs.” I consider her my first real car and I have always enjoyed
driving with her. I could go on and on about stories about her (and I realize that you wish I had
said this three pages ago), whether it was about the time I got a CD player in the car after the
tape deck busted, or the time my brake pads were fully depleted to the point that I had to “cruise” into the mechanics shop for
replacement, or the time I had Chris Brockman jamming on his way down to Ocean City.
All I have left of her is these memories, a cigarette lighter (which always sat to my left in the car) and a cup holder.
I’ll miss my Eclipse, but will never forget her.
returning to form. Let's see if it sticks.
Can I get personal for a second? This past weekend marked a very important milestone in my life: The death of my first car.
As many of you know, for the last years (read: since I was 16) I have driven a 1990
(purchased in 1989) Mitsubishi Eclipse. It was red, with black accents – a nice stripe
on each side, and the back and front bumper. The license plate was simple: WZG-796.
My mother purchased this car when I was 10, getting rid of a car she had had for six
years. Now most 10 year olds don’t think about what car they will get when they are 16,
but my brother had just turned 16 the previous October and received a nice hand me
down Honda Accord. So when this beautiful sportscar entered my garage for the first
time, the thought about when my mother would want a new one, and the fact that – by
being the third child – I was going to get a hand me down, only one thought came to
mind: This is my car.
Of course, on my 16th birthday, that didn’t happen so easily. Determined to not satisfy my thirst to drive the day I hit the ripe
old age of 16, my father made me wait a month to get my license. Meanwhile, the Eclipse had been handed down – but not to
me. It went to my brother Adam, who’s Honda Accord had met an unpleasant fate when crumpled between a Mercedes and a
Flower Delivery Truck during Rosh Hashanah services (for those of you wondering, yes the German-made Mercedes survived
with minimal scratches).
When I finally passed my driving test (on the first try, I might add), I got handed my Grandfathers Chrysler Lebaron. It was red,
but more of a “rust red” than a nice cherry red. The Lebaron made it less than a year with me. After noticing some odd noises,
I took the car in to be checked by Al (serving Howard County since 1977). Al called back a few hours later with the diagnosis: A
Carbon Dioxide leak was seeping into the car and slowly killing the driver. My father, with all the heart of a pinecone said, “Ok,
just do an oil change and we’ll come pick it up.” Luckily Al knew this wasn’t a good idea. “No, you don’t understand,” he said,
“this car won’t make it through another oil change. If it was a horse, I would tell you to take it around back and put a bullet in
it.” The next day, Goodwill came and took the car away (isn’t that nice – we gave it to charity)
Adam, who had moved home the previous year after, was about to start helping out in the family business. Since he had
graduated the previous year from Frostburg (for those of you good at math… well then you’re not Adam, and you understand
why his schooling took a few more years), my parents decided to help him buy his first car: a silver Honda Del Sol. It was a
beautiful car: The roof came off (to be stored in the trunk), the back window rolled down and it was smaller than a VCR. Sure,
in order to save buck, Adam got it without air conditioning (a choice he would later regret), but that thing was nice.
Of course, in all of this, I was handed the keys to my Eclipse (or “Eclispe”– when my mom got the car, my father gave her an
engraved keychain that read “Judi’s Eclispe”… I wonder if we still have that keychain…). It was unreal. I had gone from a
broken down Lebaron that was slowly killing me – one that I had decorated with fuzzy dice, a dancing hula girl, and a ‘faux’ fur
steering wheel cover – to a red sportscar. And I was still in High School.
The Eclipse was a great car: A standard gear shift allowed the driver to have full control over the car; the seat belts were hung
from the ceiling and automatically came back when you closed the door; the hatchback was perfect for putting the back seats
down and putting a lot of stuff in the car (or making out); the dashboard surrounded the driver and made you feel like you were
in a cockpit of a plane; the lights popped up when needed, and shifted back comfortably into the car when they were off; a in-
car cell phone had been installed, with phone receiver and cord; it fit two comfortably, four uncomfortably and six (yes, six)
VERY uncomfortably.
For the next few years, I drove it all over Columbia. It was my ride and no one else’s. I would take it to school and back every
day. My senior year, I had an internship with the Howard County Chamber of Commerce. I would hop in my car after school (I
got to leave a little early), stop by McDonald’s and get a #2 Value Meal (that would be two cheeseburgers, fries and coke) and
then drive with my knee to work. It was the best.
During High School, I treated the car with a lot of TLC (it helped that Daddy paid for the gas card, which meant “free” gas, “free”
car washes and “free” convenience store food). One day I remember brining in my cup holder, which resided in the arm rest
and often got dirty. After cleaning it out, I left it to dry on the counter. Thinking it was junk (didn’t our parents think everything
we had was junk in High School), my father threw it out. This simple, 10 second act, lead to three months of me in every junk
yard in Maryland. I checked old Eclipses, old Plymouth Lasers and anything else that looked like my car. One day, as my
attempts to replace my cup holders grew more and more aggravating, I went downstairs to find that my father had gone to
McDonald’s, purchased a “Super Size” cup and made me a holder that would fit perfectly in my car. After that, I never looked
for a cup holder again, and even had I found it, I probably wouldn’t have used it.
Then there was my first accident: One beautiful fall afternoon, my friends (five of us in total) and I crammed in the Eclipse and
drove 35 minutes to the Maryland Renaissance Festival in Crownsville, Maryland. My friend Adam the Actor was performing that
day and we wanted to wish him luck. Several hours and turkey legs later, we left the festival poorer, muddier and with a
commemorative mug.
On the way back, I was telling my friends a joke I had heard recently. While telling them I briefly looked into my rear view mirror
to see them when all of a sudden my car started to move out of control. Apparently I had failed to realize that a curve was
coming up and instead of driving with the curve, I hit the median. We skidded along for maybe 25 – 40 feet, because I finally
brought the car to a stop.
In the front with me – and holding my commemorative mug – was my then girlfriend Stacy. After checking on her (the mug left a
nice bruise on her forehead) and then everyone else, we popped out of the car. The damage: Two blown tires, some axel
issues and minor body damage (some scrapes). After moving the car off the road, the cops finally arrived. The assessed the
car and called us a tow truck. The funny part is that I hit the curve outside of Fort Meade, a big military base in between
Columbia (where I grew up) and Crownsville. Apparently hitting this curb required an MP to come out and inspect the curb to
make sure that my car had not done damage to their curb. Luckily it didn’t. We waited in the dark for an hour or so for the tow
truck. In that time, we retrieved my hub caps, my friend Tina had an awakening (“Life’s too short” I recall her saying before
bursting into tears for what seemed like the zillionth time), and I sat with my Eclipse. When the tow truck finally came, I can
remember watching my car be pulled up onto the tow trucks bed, its two blown wheels causing the car to lay to her left side. It
was a very sad moment and one that I can still remember as if it happened yesterday.
My next door neighbors, the Boonshafts, showed up in my parent’s absence (they were on vacation). All five of us piled in the
car, and one by one the Boonshafts dropped us off at our respective homes. Then we went to Al’s and saw the car. The
damage was bad, but not life threatening – she would be fine and good as new in a week.
In ’97 I went to college. Of course Syracuse had a policy that Freshmen could not have cars on campus (a ridiculous concept
when you realize that the biggest garage on campus lived right under not one, but two Freshman dorms). Technically, I couldn’
t bring it back until after Spring Break, but after driving to Syracuse a few times (at six hours a pop), Mom and Dad agreed to
send a letter to the school demanding I be allowed my car. In January 1998, the Eclipse made it’s first of many trips to
Syracuse.
Over the years, there has been a lot of talk about the lack of space in my car. Yet, every summer, I would put down the back
seats, throw in virtually my entire dorm room and head back to Maryland. She always had plenty of room for me.
Syracuse left me with – as my brother likes to call it – a “great story.” During the Spring semester of my Junior year, I was
dating a girl named Emily. Emily was a mere 16 and I was 19. We had a nice relationship, but since Emily lived in Columbia,
Maryland with her parents, most of it was spent apart. One day, surfing the internet, we found a cheap flight to Buffalo (just a
two and a half hour drive west of Syracuse). I, of course, was going to drive the Eclipse to pick her up and bring her back to
Syracuse.
I hopped in my car that night around 6pm and got on the New York Turnpike (I-90) to pick her up. It was a dark night, and for
those of you who have been on I-90, you know that it has virtually no road lights. About 45 minutes into the drive, I passed
Rochester. As I went by, I recall just passing Exit 43 (who knows if that’s right or not) when something presented itself in my left
lane. It was a deer.
I swerved to the right to avoid it, but it was too late. The deer hit my car on the left hand driver’s side, slamming its head into my
windshield and its body into my door. The glass from the driver’s window shattered on me and the car spun out of control. I
looked down to see that my door had flung open and the car was moving wildly on the road. Finally, the car went off road to the
left, coming in backwards into a ditch. Once the car stopped, I jumped out. My legs were shaking, and my face felt like it had
small tingles on it.
At this point, just a few seconds after I got out of the car, a beautiful new, very clean, white pickup truck pulled over to the side
of the room. A man and his wife got out of the car and asked it I was ok and that they had seen what happened and had
phoned 911 for me. I thanked them and took a big gulp of air. Then he asked me, “Do you want the deer?”
Besides the obvious stunned notion most people would have to this comment, a few other thoughts went through my head: No, I
don’t want the deer and if I did, where am I going to put him? Do you not see my car?
After a cordial no, the man asked if he could have it. I, of course, agreed.
He and his wife walked off into the distance and a few minutes later a police
officer arrived. He took down my information and called a tow truck for me.
A few minutes later, the man in the white pickup truck and his wife reappeared,
dragging a deer with them by his antlers. Passing by me and the cop, the
man made sure the cop was ok with him taking the deer (apparently
appropriate deer rules state that the person who killed the deer has “dibs,”
followed by the first officer on the scene, followed by the first civilian on the
scene – who knew?). The cop was just fine
Now, I can’t tell you if my hitting the deer killed it or not. What I can tell you
is that the Eclipse definitely did some damage to the buck. There was a clear
gash in his neck, but I have always assumed that the car merely injured the animal. It is my guess that the man did the final kill.
This is where it gets “icky”: The man and his wife drag the deer to the back of their white pick up truck, but the two of them can’t
seem to lift the buck. Seeing that their efforts are futile, the man decides that they have to decrease the weight of the deer. He
and his wife then dragged the deer around to the front of the car. The man turned on his headlights, and with his wife holding
one of the deer’s legs in the air, he proceeded to gut the deer on the side of the New York Turnpike with his Swiss Army knife.
After the “cleaning,” the man and his wife threw the deer in the bay of the truck. The man went to his side of the car and wiped
the deer blood from his hands. His wife, meanwhile, went to her side of the truck, bent over, and threw up. Concerned for her, I
asked if she was ok, to which she replied “Yeah. Must have been something I smelled.” Yeah, like a deer’s insides.
Eventually a tow truck came and dropped me off at a McDonald’s on the outskirts of Rochester. I called my friend Jason and
begged him to come get me – which of course, also meant driving me to Buffalo to get Emily. Jason agreed and in his rush to
get me, got a speeding ticket (which I offered to pay, but he refused).
We picked up Emily around midnight at the Buffalo airport. She had been worried sick and was about to start yelling at me
when she saw my face. A quick story later and we were on our way back to Syracuse.
For the record, my face was fine. The glass was the kind that when it breaks it comes in small shards so as to not injure
someone. I definitely had some cuts, but no gashes, no stitches needed. I was in much better shape than the car: When my
friend Julie and I visited the Eclipse at the mechanic in Syracuse (where we had the car towed a few days later), she was in bad
shape. The windshield was smashed, the driver side door was gone, and the car was covered in glass.
The morning after the crash, I got several calls from family members who had heard that I was in an accident from my mom.
Most of them, after hearing the story, were happy to hear I was ok. That is everyone but my brother Adam: Upon hearing the
story of the “deer incident,” he stayed quiet for a short time before erupting with, “That is awesome! You now have a great story
to tell!” Years later, I still do.
A week later our insurance company called. The car was going to be junked – it had $3,500 worth of damage, and after 10
years, the car’s value was below $3,000. After a few minutes, I asked the insurance company if they could give me the $3,000,
not junk the car, and I would pay the difference. He said no, but offered to look into it. An hour later I got the call, the money
and my car back.
As they always say after an accident, the car was never the same. The replacement door never worked great. In fact when
they replaced it, for some reason the replacement didn’t have a door handle, so they used one from a different car. It was the
wrong color and the wrong fit. The windshield also wasn’t perfect, with the lining between the shield and the roof curling up a
few days afterwards. Even the left flip-up light – which took a beating – always drooped a little lower than the right. But the
Eclipse continued to get me back and forth from Syracuse and continued to be a great car.
In 2001, I accepted a job and moved to New York City. New York is not the ideal place for a car, but I tried to make it work. I left
the car in Long Island with my sister-in-laws parents for a few months. One time, after a few weeks of non-use, I went to
retrieve it only to find out the battery had gone dead. At that point, I decided it was time to return it to Maryland.
And so I went alone in New York. At least once a month I came home to Maryland, and the Eclipse was always there for me.
Since the car was a little old, my father would drive it from time to time. Sometimes he did too much with the car, like the time he
removed the car phone from the car (it hadn’t had service in years, but it was always nice to have there).
A few years ago, I started dating Stephanie and on one trip home, we decided to bring the car back to New York. We had just
spent close to $150 on Amtrak tickets to Maryland and were going to do it again the following weekend for my nieces birthday
party, when we decided to drive the Eclipse back. Instead of buying two roundtrip tickets over the course of two weekends, we
took the train down and brought the Eclipse back. The plan was to drive it down to Maryland the following weekend and then
take the train back. Only we never did. Realizing that we could leave it with her family in Queens, Stephanie and I decided to
leave the car in New York and just be conscious to drive it every few weeks so the battery – and more importantly the engine –
didn’t die. That was November 2004.
In January 2005, the Eclipse became almost vital to me. It was right after New Years when Stephanie started to complain about
a pain in her side. We both thought nothing of it, but when she almost fainted while getting on a bus one day, I insisted she see
a doctor (my threat: I would out our relationship to our co-workers who didn’t know). As a native of Queens, Stephanie headed
out to Long Island Jewish Medical Center to see her doctor. It turns out that she had an enflamed appendix and needed it
removed immediately. What we would later find out was that the appendix was perforated and was leaking toxins into her body.
She had two surgeries over the course of two months: One to remove her appendix and one to remove the infection from the
toxins.
Stephanie being in Queens made it difficult for me to see her in the hospital. But having the Eclipse afforded me the ability to
go and see her every weekend and on weekday nights. Without the Eclipse, it would have been a long two months and I would
not have been there to support her, and help her mom take care of whatever items Stephanie needed.
The Eclipse has stayed with us in New York since, mainly in Queens. Whenever we have a weeding or anything out of town,
Steph and I would go to Queens on Thursday night, drive the car back into the city and then leave on Friday. We did this for a
few years.
Of course, time had taken it’s toll on the Eclipse. The windshield developed a small
leak that would sometimes leave my seat wet after a heavy rainstorm; the black side
stripping on the outside started to peel off, until eventually I had to pull it off for fear of
dragging rubber stripping on the highway; one of the air pumps used to hold up the
hatchback broke, thus creating the need for a stick to hold up the trunk; the headlights
stopped retracting when I turned off the lights, and even after I stopped lowering the
lights, gravity slowly made them get lower and lower; the roof was slowly peeling off
and hanging low, held up by only a few thumb tact’s; it had a nasty oil leak, and would
often have white smoke coming from the tailpipe – an indication it was burning oil; the
air-conditioning stopped working; and then the inevitable happened.
My father insisted I come before the end of July 2006 to make sure my car passed its emissions test. I had a free weekend, so I
hopped in the car and headed home. When I arrived that Friday, my father suggested I meet him at the emissions test, rather
than wait until Saturday. We meet there and I pulled my car in to be tested. I was greeted by a member of the Maryland DMV
who said that he would not and could not test me – apparently my car was smoking and the smoke would hurt their equipment.
He gave me a four month extension and told me to get the car fixed. The next morning my father and I dropped the car off with
Al. He called four hours later with the news.
After 17 years and 190,000 plus miles, the Eclipse needed a new engine. The cost: $3,000. The Eclipse had run its course.
I drove the car back to New York that Sunday, and the car drove fine. Over the course the of the next few weeks, I drove to the
car whenever I could: to Draft Weekend in Atlantic City, to Labor Day Weekend in Deep Creek Lake, Maryland, to my brother’s
house in Connecticut. Every trip I thought would be its last – but she never gave me any issues.
Then I received a call from my brother Adam: He and his wife had bought a new car and – for
a small price – he would sell me his 2001 Nissan Xtera. It was a good price and the car wasn’t
overly used – just 97,000 miles in five years. With the Eclipse on its last “leg,” it was an offer I
could not refuse.
This past weekend was Yom Kippur weekend. Stephanie and I went down to Maryland to spend
it with family. We rode down in the Eclipse.
On Monday, I cleaned out the car and took some photos. On Tuesday, I got in the Xtera, looked
at the Eclipse one last time, and then watched it fade away through my rear view mirror.
The Eclipse ended with 195,355 miles and 17 years of service. She had three different “owners,”
people who claimed the car as “theirs.” I consider her my first real car and I have always enjoyed
driving with her. I could go on and on about stories about her (and I realize that you wish I had
said this three pages ago), whether it was about the time I got a CD player in the car after the
tape deck busted, or the time my brake pads were fully depleted to the point that I had to “cruise” into the mechanics shop for
replacement, or the time I had Chris Brockman jamming on his way down to Ocean City.
All I have left of her is these memories, a cigarette lighter (which always sat to my left in the car) and a cup holder.
I’ll miss my Eclipse, but will never forget her.
