Last week, an old friend of mine passed away. I haven’t been asked yet to give a eulogy at the funeral, but I thought I’d write one up, just to help me work through some emotions.

We’re gathered here today to honor the memory of 1GCDL19W5TB552866, a 1993 Ford Tempo affectionately named “The Red Rocket.”

The Red Rocket wasn’t the fastest car on the road. Or the fanciest. Or the most reliable. She was labeled by many a “Roller Skate,” “Death Trap” and “Ugliest Car I’ve Ever Seen.” But she was my first, and I loved her dearly.

Rather than complain about her habits of breaking down and leaking oil like some in this room seem to enjoy doing [pauses and glares at guilty parties], I’d like to take a few minutes to remember some of the Red Rocket’s best qualities.

She was brave.

I remember the day I bought the Red Rocket from my older cousin Toni for $500. I was a junior in high school, and I finally had the freedom to do whatever I wanted. I had keys. I had gas. I had the world.

My first trip as an independent, almost-adult: Picking up my little sister from a birthday party.

As I was backing out of the birthday party driveway, I noticed a truck parked directly behind me in the street. I turned hard to avoid it. Wouldn’t want to get into an accident on the very first drive, right? That would just be –

CRUNCH!

With 100 percent of my attention focused on avoiding the truck parked 15 feet behind me, I did not notice the telephone pole planted inches to my left. The Red Rocket had survived her first 10 years without a scratch. Ten minutes with the new owner left her with a giant, jagged hole in her front bumper.

Toni freaked out the next time she saw the car.

“What did you do?!”

“Well, there was a telephone pole, and…”

“You’ve had it for one day!”

“I don’t think it looks THAT bad.”

Toni stared at the damage for a minute then turned and squinted at me. She finally walked away shaking her head. “I liked that car a lot.”

I continued liking that car a lot. And the Red Rocket liked me back. As the dents kept coming, as the hubcaps fell off one by one, as it became necessary to hold the front bumper in place with a bungee cord, she stayed strong and brave, no matter what anybody else said about her.

She taught me about the true meaning of family.

I remember when the time finally came to move on from the Red Rocket. Since I couldn’t bear to see her go to a stranger (and most strangers walked away the minute they saw what she looked like), I met with my brother Jesse, who was looking for a car.

“I was going to put the Red Rocket on Craigslist for $1,000, but I thought I’d give you a chance to buy her for $400.”

“But you paid $500 for it two years ago when it was actually nice!”

“You try to buy a car that runs for $400!”

“I’ll give you $200 for it.”

“Nope.”

“$300.”

“Nope.”

“Fine, I’ll give you $400.”

“You’ve made a great decision!”

“You’re the worst.”

Jesse drove the Red Rocket for three whole months before she finally broke for good. (Jesse says it was a broken brake line, I say it was a broken heart.)

At college that semester, I kept getting angry calls from Jesse, who seemed upset that he had paid $400 for a non-working car.

“It’s not personal, it’s business,” I’d remind him.

“You’re the worst.”

She fought until the end.

After Jesse abandoned her, the Red Rocket spent her retirement years in my parents’ garage as a Plan B (or C or D or Z or whatever) in case any of my brothers or sisters desperately needed a car. She was not in good condition by any means, but my dad is a very optimistic man, and he always believed that a weekend or two of repairs could bring her back to life in the event of an emergency.

Of course, those repairs never happened, and now that all the kids are gone, my parents finally decided to say goodbye to the Red Rocket. Last week, they found someone willing to give them $230 to tow her away and scrap her for metal. (Did you hear that Jesse, $230! And she doesn’t even run!)

The Red Rocket, bless her heart, did not go quietly. At 8:45 a.m. last Monday, I began getting texts from my mom.

“It’s not moving.”

“The gas tank started leaking.”

“I am holding my breath watching this red car leave. I’m clutching the $230. The poor guy will prob want it back after trying to get that thing out of here.”

“Oh dear oh dear, this is excruciating.”

“Pray…It is still here.”

“Now he’s hammering the tire.”

I visited my parents’ house the next day, and noticed it felt a little emptier. There was no red car in the garage, just two parallel poop stains running down the driveway – rust skids from an old friend that wasn’t ready to let go.

Goodbye, Red Rocket. You will be missed. But probably just by me.

LIFE LESSON #38

The best and brightest among us are often the most misunderstood.