Bloggin' Umholtz

Nellie Belle

         Nellie Belle was born in 1951 (I think) and she smelled funny. Now before somebody pulls a Winston Churchill on me, she just had a strange aroma about her, that’s all. She was pretty old by the time I got to know her and most of her rough edges had been worn away. Like a good single malt scotch, she mellowed with age. She must have been quite the fireball in her youth though.

         She had some funny quirks about her. She couldn’t climb hills as well as when she was younger and she made strange sounds from time to time. Pop assured me it was nothing serious, but I wasn’t so sure. It was when she began to smoke that we knew the end was in sight. In all the years I knew her, she never smoked, not once, not until just before the end.

         Her strange smell always intrigued me and still does to this day. It was unique. It didn’t have anything to do with perfume, yet there was a hint of perfume in there. It was a combination of things. It was the odors of all the things and people she had encountered during her life, all the things that had been shoved into her, and all the things that had been taken out. They all left their telltale mark and the combination of all of these was what made up Nellie Belle’s smell.

         I remember her fondly. She would go on fishing trips with us and to church on Sunday. Her skin was a deep chocolate brown and she had very graceful curves. She wasn’t what you would call pretty to look at, but there was an air of niceness and security about her. She was a tough old bird and didn’t take any guff. She never let us down, not even at the very end. Whenever we needed her she was there. Until, one day, I woke up and Nellie Belle was gone. I’m not quite sure where she went. I’ll have to ask Pop, he’ll know. I was pretty young at the time, maybe eight years old. All I knew was she was gone. In a few weeks she was replaced. I don’t remember her replacement’s name but I do remember Nellie Belle.

         I thought of today’s topic, Nellie Belle, as I was driving back from taking my son to work this morning. I hadn’t thought of her in a few years. You see, Nellie Belle was a car. It’s funny how we get attached to our vehicles, even to the point of giving some of them names.

         What brought Nellie Belle to mind was the fact that I was sitting behind the wheel of a 1992 Dodge Caravan that’s been driven 138,000 miles. Like the Energizer Bunny, it’s still going. It was new when we bought it, so each scratch and dent, each little quirk (and it has many) all belong to those of us that have known her (cars are always female, have you noticed that?) for all these years.

         She burns or leaks a quart of oil every 3000 miles, which is okay because I get her oil changed every 3000 miles. The speaker covers have fallen off the rear door and her rear end rattles something fierce. The dashboard tells me there is a “door ajar” constantly but for the life of me I can’t figure out which one. And after twenty miles or so on the road the dash tells me to “Check the engine.” The first few times this message appeared I actually pulled over, popped the hood and looked at the engine. After coming to the somewhat rapid conclusion that the engine was there, I wondered if that was what was meant by “check the engine.” Eventually I determined it was and I now mostly just ignore the ignominious message.

         The radio will change stations on its own from time to time and the roof rack has rusted away to nothing. The transmission slips so when you first start out it’s always an adventure as to whether you can pull all the way out in front of that rapidly approaching tractor-trailer or just part way. One is infinitely better than the other.

         My mechanic is dropping not so subtle hints that he really doesn’t want to see my van anymore and I‘ve repaired all the rust holes in the body with spray foam insulation and duck tape. You never know, when you leave to go somewhere, if you’re going to make it back and the stuffing has fallen out of the driver’s seat.

God, I love that van.

I’ve decided it’s time that the van received a name. I have visions of 200,000 miles before I’m done and the name may be all the encouragement the van needs to help me reach my goal. Anybody have any ideas?

Oh, and by the way, she smells funny.