I’ve been reading some of the open letters over at McSweeney’s lately, and decided to try my hand at writing one. You can write to anyone or anything (generally not someone or something you are expecting a response from), but it must be nonfiction; that is, it has to be prompted by an actual event in your life.

An Open Letter to My 1996 Saturn, Which Has Taken on the Role of Life Coach, Despite Never Having Been Hired in This Capacity

Dear Madame Sunroof,

We’ve known each other for a good many years. You’d already completed one career track as my dad’s car for his sales trips by the time my sisters and I got to use you in high school, and you were a healthy 8 years old when I purchased you from my parents after college. You moved with me to a new state and settled in pretty well, becoming casual acquaintances with the Naperville Saturn dealership and its garage, and moving me around the suburbs of Chicago with ease.

But something changed when I moved us to Chicago proper. You were no longer the carefree car of my youth, eager for whatever adventure lay ahead. No, now you were a delicate old machine, approaching each trip farther than the grocery store with trepidation and squeaky brakes. I thought you were just aging, and I tried to ease the transition as best I could, with sporadic trips to the mechanic and a constant stream of verbal encouragement when we were riding around town together. I thought this would help and you’d cheer up.

Instead, I find that you’ve chosen a new career path in your twilight years. You’ve taken it upon yourself to be my life coach, though I never asked you to take on that role and certainly don’t consider myself in need of one. Once I figured out that each new ailment was trying to teach me a life lesson, I saw your plan coming together.

Going from 0 to 35 is a bit shaky, but it’s the crucial going from 35 to 55 when entering the highway that really makes you shudder and nearly shut down completely? Easy does it, tortoise and hare, etc.!

When it rains, the water comes in through a mysterious hole that no mechanic has been able to find and soaks the foot space of both the driver and front passenger seats? Bad things happen unexpectedly, and the best you can do is be prepared with some towels to sop up the mess!

The horn starts blowing in the middle of the night for no reason and I have to drive you around for 30 minutes til it shuts itself off? Get ready, because babies are way worse!

The rear suspension rod has lost all lubricant and makes a horrible creaking noise heard two blocks away every time I turn a corner? Loud music still solves most woes!

The rear windows won’t go back up once lowered (sometimes you can only go forward!), closing the door too hard turns the overhead light on or off (you never know when a ray of sunshine will burst through!), the floor of the backseat is literally rusting out (there’s nothing quite like a breath of fresh air!), and so on.

I guess I appreciate all these lessons you’re sharing with me, ol’ Saturn. But in a couple weeks I plan to drive us up to visit some friends in northern Michigan, and I’m counting on you to make that six-hour journey there and back. We’ve been a lot of places and covered a lot of miles, and I’m awfully fond of you. I’m sure that you can go the distance. Whaddya say, how about we make this lesson “if you’re well-loved, you can still go far,” and not “at the end of it all, go out in a blaze of glory”?

Truly yours,
Lisa