Every so often, 310CashForCars stumbles upon forgotten treasure. After all, on average 100 calls come in every day from people just like you. They want to sell their junk or old car. It’s hard for them. An old car, even if it’s just sitting in the driveway, is a daily reminder of the past.
Hey, if you’re like me, you named your car. My first car, a boxy yellow Fiat stick, was a good starter vehicle. It wasn’t super-sporty or sexy, but it sure puttered me to and from work and the weekly date with my girlfriend. She was named “Melinda”. The girlfriend, not the car. The car named herself. The first day it began stalling out, crying my name in vain, I calmed my little Fiat’s nerves by petting its dashboard and repeating: “It’ll be all right, Penelope.” She then coughed and exploded. Then Melinda left me. For a guy with a Maserati.
I had my eye on a cute little BMW 2002. Purple, or “malaga” (kinda blood-color), my first Beemer had a low center of gravity, cornered like it was strangling the curb, had an other-worldly Terry Gilliam Brazil feel to it and plenty of ridiculously expensive mechanical problems. But, while it lasted, my first BMW was the coolest thing I ever owned. And, ya’ know what? I never named her. Or it. Whatever. We broke up. She was too expensive for my budget.
I needed a change in my life. That little Beemster and I traveled the country. When we got to the midwest, we met a little old lady (pictured) whose late husband Wilmer, once owned a very similar car. Since I just deposited my first big check on a book I wrote: “Parrots and Carrots: Rhyming and Miming Through the 21st Century,” I simply gave good ole Wilma the Beemer and told her it was an absolute pleasure and honor meeting her. I grabbed the next bus to the next town on my journey across America. And, as I slid my headphones on and leaned my bus seat back for a long nap, I thought about good ole Wilma and Wilmer in their youth and imagined them riding an old Model T Ford to a countryside picnic.