Friends, old and new, familiar and forgotten:
Yesterday, at 2:42pm, Sue died after traveling nearly 270,000 miles, enough to have driven to the moon, and nearly 1/5th of the way back. The 1985 Saab 900's transmission seized while returning to Philadelphia on Interstate 76. She made it safely to the shoulder, like she always does, and then her front wheels locked up. Odds are, they will never spin again.
In the 8 or so years since I've had Sue, I've met and lost touch with many of you, but my car has remained. Some of you have travelled long distances in Sue, across a continent, through deserts and prairies, up to the tops of mountains and down two coasts. Some of you only knew her in passing. Some of you have been on the side of the road with me when she couldn't go anymore. Few of you had the chance to drive her. She wasn't a fast car, she wasn't flashy. But she was reliable and true and adventurous.
As you go through life, it's rare that you have a common frame through which to view so many things and places and people. I saw an entire country through Sue's windshield, and so did some of you. I slept in her, fixed her, wired and rewired her. I attached enormous lobster claws to her for a road rally, and covered her with fake snow so that she could become The Mock 5. She's been further off road than she was designed for. She's gone up hill in heavy snow, and never ever got stuck. She's carried me and you and our belongings to our new apartments. She took me to my high-school prom. She's taken me to work. She's taken me to many places, and until yesterday, always took me home.
Whether or not Sue had a spirit, something unique and special about her is up for debate with you all, but not me. There's a little bit of all of you in this car, and whether or not we've kept in touch all these years, we've all seen at least a part of the world through that same pane of glass, and that's a special thing. I can't hope to say what I want to any better than Michael Collins did, when he spoke of the spacecraft that brought the first human beings to the moon. He wrote:
"I prefer people to machinery but there are times when cold, inanimate objects deserve the affection, regard and esteem usually reserved for flesh and blood. July 24 was such a time, and Columbia was such a machine.
She had taken us across a hostile, black void to an alien world then back again, depositing us almost affectionately on the bluest of blue waters. It didn't seem just to leave her scorched carcass unceremoniously, gutted and unattended, without somehow trying to mark her, to set her apart. That night I clambered back on board and, ballpoint pen in hand, stood at the navigation station, staring at the blank expanse of grey bulkhead.
I couldn't think of words eloquent enough to describe my emotions but finally I wrote "Spacecraft 107, alias Apollo 11, alias Columbia. The best ship to come down the line. God bless her."
I hope this letter finds you all well. Let's drink tonight to a good old car that took us to so many wonderful places.
God speed,
Charlie
P.S. If any of you would like to say something about Sue, or tell a story or memory you have in/of her, I've created a message board for exactly that purpose: http://flimshaw.net/sue/ Please feel free to email any good pictures you've got too. I'm going to put together a photo section. Also, forward this along to anybody I've forgotten that might care.