Trusty Tercel

A dozen years ago, we traded Will’s little college car, a red Ford Escort, for an even littler car: our trusty Toyota Tercel. The Escort had died, we needed a vehicle right away, and the Tercel was a real deal. Just a year old, it had covered a mere 9,000 miles, but it’s a very basic model—no power steering, no power windows, no power anything. (Except for the engine—this little guy can Go!) Because it’s so bare-bones, the original owners decided to “trade up” for something more luxurious. Their gain was also ours.

“Luxurious,” our Tercel is not—especially not 12 years and 230,000+ miles later. To tell the truth, it’s become a bit of an eyesore, particularly the interior. On the outside, it’s still the same Easter-egg green (think deep sea-foam). It’s got a few dents, but nothing serious. And it’s really held up well, rust-wise, considering the winters we endure in these parts. Open the driver’s side door, however, and you can see the battleship gray vinyl-covered seats appear to have been, in fact, through a battle. The orange-yellow foam cushioning is exposed in several spots, even missing a few small chunks. I’ve actually seen my fastidious father recoil before entering our car.

I’ve tried three or four times to conceal the unsightly seats with those ready-made covers you can buy at the stores. Every time, though, Will has somehow managed to mangle them. They don’t stay in place easily. And the truth is, he doesn’t care. I’m the vain one in this case, trying to keep up the appearance of a “respectable” automobile. I think I lost my fighting chance when Will started working the farms.

As a journalist, Will has always driven the Tercel all over tarnation, covering meetings, interviews and events for the local newspaper. Last year, he got it into his head that in order to truly understand area agriculture, he needed to try the jobs for himself, literally “get his hands dirty”—and the car. After encountering dairies, mucklands, orchards and fields bearing various crops, the Tercel has definitely entered the class of “working cars.” And, to my surprise, I find I feel relieved.

(In addition to its objectionable appearance, there are several minor functional flaws to catalogue: the dome light no longer works, nor the radio; the trunk only opens from the inside, by yanking the back seat forward and fitting small items through the resulting gap. The passenger side door can be unlocked, but not with the key—someone has to pull up the lock button from the driver’s side. Also, the rubber door seals frequently slip off-track, yielding a drafty, wind-whistling ride in the wintertime.)

I don’t have to pretend anymore. The Tercel is not a showpiece symbol of our membership in the middle class. It’s a vehicle, a means, an admirably durable machine that moves us from Points A to B—and C, D, M, and Z. I’m grateful for it, especially when I consider the comparative unreliability of our Ford minivan, a topic for another entry, to be entitled: “Lousy Lose-star.”