ManVan, I salute you. You drove a ton of boat stuff down from Washington, saving us hundreds on U-Haul. Then you helped us move from Mountain View to Emery Cove. You were there for shuttling stuff back and forth to the marina, and you’ve served us faithfully all these months as our nearby no-cost storage unit. When you wouldn’t start for me last weekend, I understood. You’ve been neglected, your fuel had been left too long, your headlights were probably left on by young, curious fingers.
I bought you two new (to you) batteries, and patiently turned your engine over… and over… and over. When those new batteries were fully depleted, I called our good friends at AAA. They came slowly, but they did come, and when they did they gave you some ether to take your mind off your troubles. With a mind full of booze, you rocked it all the way to storage, and all you needed to get you back home again was another jumpstart from our buddies at AAA.
The next start was harder. I understand. At 27 you’re just not a morning person. It was so cold, your batteries were low again. But by noon, after hours and hours of backrubs and pep talks, I gave you some more booze, a lot of booze this time, and you rallied. And ManVan, you rallied hard. You may have missed the boat on dying young but you sure know how to live, well if not fast, at least large. I never turned you off ManVan. I did not ask you to go quietly into the night. You brought me and my stuff to the shipping company, and then back to the storage, without stopping that big brave engine of yours. And when, finally, at 56th and San Pablo, that brave heart gave up the ghost, I let you glide peacefully to the side of the road.
You have lived (I suspect) a full and rich life. You have served our family well these many months. In the end we carried your tired bones home to your final resting place. Your buddy the AAA flatbed driver lovingly deposited you right back in your spot (between the lines even) where you will await your reincarnation. Go in peace ManVan, you will be missed.