Not-So-Much a Fan of the Van

We bought our 1998 Ford Windstar minivan the day before Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. I mean absolutely no disrespect to the victims of that horrific hurricane when I write that, nor do I intend to imply any comparison whatsoever to the tragedy and hardship caused by Katrina. It’s more a matter of, “Where were you when…?” Just like people naturally recall where they were or how they heard about major deaths and disasters (some in my lifetime: Elvis’ overdose, Reagan shot, Challenger explosion, Princess Diana, 9/11, Hurricane Katrina)—I remember the day we bought our Windstar, the day before the storm of the century. Mere coincidence.

I was about 6 months pregnant with Pearl at the time. Because car seat laws in our state would require us to have 3 seats installed for at least the next year, it seemed necessary for us to graduate from our 4-door sedan to a minivan—a vehicle where we could spread out, with enough room to fit all the car seats, plus all the kid gear we American families schlep wherever we go, from the park to the store to Grandma’s house.

We shopped for a used van for about a month before settling on this one. Looking back, I don’t remember why ours stood out, other than its pretty red color and probably its convenience—we purchased it from a small used car outfit about 15 miles from A-Town. The convenience factor shifted from us to the dealer approximately 43 days after we assumed ownership of the vehicle.

Now 7+ months with child, I was driving the van to work 30 miles from our house when I exited the highway. At the traffic light just off the ramp, the van lurched and stalled to a stop. I hit the hazard lights, hoisted me, myself and my belly out of the driver’s seat, and waddled to the front of the van. A pretty red puddle had formed beneath the pretty red van, which translated to “Sayonara, transmission.” Very unfortunately for us, the lemon law window had slammed shut 2 weeks earlier and we had to spend about half the price of the vehicle to have it fixed. We confronted the dealer with the problem, hoping he would help pay, or even offer us a different vehicle…anything to demonstrate his decency as a human being, really. He did nothing except to shrug and then shrug us off.

I’ll spare you the litany of repair bills we’ve incurred in the four years we’ve owned the van. And actually, because we got a really low rate on the loan (and because money is tight), we didn’t own the van until about two months ago, when we finally decided to pay the thing off. Wouldn’t you know, it broke down again.

Will called me Saturday from the M-Town McDonald’s parking lot. He had taken the kids to a July 4^th parade two towns away, and they had stopped at the McD’s Playland for lunch and some climb-time on the way home. After about a half-hour of crawling through the plastic maze, the Waters foursome piled back into the van, A-Town-bound. But the van wouldn’t start. Will cell-phoned me; I drove there in the Trusty Tercel; we tried and failed to jump the Wimpy Windstar. We loaded the whole fam into the trusty-but-tiny coupé and got everybody back where we belonged. “Everyone” except the family vehicle.

I can’t help but wonder if we could have survived the past 4 years without the gas-guzzling galoot. It’s back on the road following a minor mend this time, but if it acts up again I might just have to send it to its room—the A-Town dump!