What do you say when someone offers you an 18-year-old car? If you’re me, you say, “Thank you very much,” and you fly down to Florida to pick it up.

Mom Reily had a Mercury Milan that she rarely used, and she said I could have it. So, I have a new-to-me car at long last.

What makes the Mercury more than a museum piece is that it has only 40,000 miles on it—a literal “only driven once a week to church by a little old lady” car. And before we arrived in Florida, it had been thoroughly cleaned and adorned with new tires, and looked over by a mechanic. You can’t ask for much better than that.

The Road Trip

That was how we ended up flying down to Florida to pick up the car. (We thought about having it shipped, but once we added up the plane tickets, gas, and supplies (including hard pretzels and cereal, which, for some reason, Dan always takes on road trips), the cost was a wash, which the car had also had. But I digress.) All the flights were on time and no more or less hideous than economy travel ever is.

Then we drove the car back to Ohio. We figured to be gone for three days: one to fly down there, and two to drive back, stopping at a motel halfway. I kept Dan awake on the road and practiced driving. (With my various infirmities, it wouldn’t have done to leave me alone for three days. I might have tripped over the cat and fallen. But I digress again.)

On each day of the trip back, we drove well into the night. Partly this was because Georgia is a very tall state, and partly because I insisted on stopping at sit-down restaurants. I didn’t want fast food wrappers piling up or taco spills on the upholstery. We even found a Denny’s in Valdosta, Georgia, that was quite nice and had a lovely apple pie crisp à la mode for Dan to have on his birthday, which happened in the middle of our trip. (A little Googling tells me that there are only nine Denny’s in Georgia and only around 1,300 in the whole U.S. Also, there are only 24 in Ohio, none of which are near me. I have fond memories of one particular Denny’s, though. Back in the day, after practice, our martial arts group would convene there, taking up the big, round corner booth, and discuss the finer points of punching someone in the throat. But I digress at length.)

Google Maps helped a lot, except when we got off I-75 to find one of those sit-down restaurants. Then it would insist that we make a U-turn or go down Cherry Blossom Lane in order to get back to the highway. But we never would have found our hotel in Marietta without it.

Now that we have the Mercury home, I have freedom that I haven’t known for years. I will be able to do errands, get to appointments, meet friends for lunch (looking at you, Ellen Kollie, Kelly Heir, and Beth Bengough), or drive myself to Urgent Care without Dan having to take off work. That means Dan will have more freedom, too, which is also a Good Thing.

I know many people name their cars. I don’t usually, though the little Chevette I once owned was “Baby Car-Car.” Will the Mercury get a name? Right now, I’m thinking of it as The Freedom Machine. Or maybe Harriet, after Mom Reily. (No, maybe not. I’d end up saying things like “Someone scratched Harriet in the parking lot” or “Harriet has plenty of gas.” Dan says to call it Mom, as in “My Mother, the Car.” (Yes, we’re old.) But I digress yet again.) Perhaps, as cats do, the car will let me know what her name is. I imagine I’ll be as surprised as anyone when she does.