What was to be a modest apartment became a great sharing experience for my husband and I. We couldn’t bear to not give it the best we could do and buy. We never had built anything of consequence to this point in our marriage, and determining that it would have to be built in the summer, that building stretched into eight summers. Never have I known such closeness nor had so much fun with my husband as I fetched tools and held boards and advised. Central to that was Big Brown. She hauled, almost daily, building materials, not to mention all the tools we hauled yearly back and forth 860 miles to accomplish our project. That wasn’t all. She hauled grandchildren, boogie boards, wet (and I do mean wet) suits, wet towels, food, drinks, and, oh yes, sand! And smelly seashells.
I still have a vivid recollection of youth sitting under the hatch-back helping each other pull off their wet suits and re-living their rides in the surf. Great lasting and loving connections were made between young people during these times. They loved Big Brown and at least three said that when they got their license, and when we no longer needed her, that they wanted her. That must have warmed her motor oil because she never failed us. Yes, her air conditioning gave out, but we were on the Oregon Coast each summer and who needs air conditioning there? As years passed our married children all had nicer cars and several times they, or their friends who were driving to share beach time with them, had trouble in what we call the “Baker Triangle.” But not Big Brown. Each year as we would start for Oregon, usually taking a few grandchildren with us, we would wonder if she could pull all that stuff out of the driveway. But each year she hauled all that stuff the 860 miles and if she could have bent her bumper into a smile I’m pretty sure she would have.
Cancer struck my husband again. Not aggressive, but evidence of our mortality. Big Brown’s paint glaze began to flake away and she, like us, began to show her age. In about 1999 my husband was determined to order and have a reconditioned motor put in the old girl. I, like most of our children, railed that it was poor economics. So it happened. I have wondered if because he could not control his own body, my husband saw her as something he could control and make better. At any rate, at an expense greater than we could have sold the old girl, she received a motor, and so began more years of service—back and forth to Oregon and around and around our area. Everyone who knows us recognized Big Brown. She has that peculiar click click in her left rear wheel.
The place at the beach was finally finished, we retired, and many of the grandchildren were growing up. Now what? We sold our other car but parked Big Brown next to our son’s beautiful new home in his beautiful neighborhood. Our daughter-in-law was a sport and looked the other way. We agreed at this point that our son should offer to donate her to a local charity, and we went off for a year and a half on a mission for our church.
