Some highlights include:
- T.J. the Travelin' Javelin
- 70 GMC Panel (remember panel trucks?) named Ol' Blue, partly from the colour, partly from the smoke
- The Nova-tron
- A Sunbird named The Solar Chicken, or Chicken for short
- A Suburban named "James" (what do Jimmys' become when they grow up?)
- A royal blue Buick Estate Wagon affectionately called Bluebelle
My Darling Bride (M.D.B.) balked at driving her at first as it was... well, a station wagon. But after some time cruising in luxury and feeling the smooth power of the Buick V-8, M.D.B. grew to love her. As we introduced the kids to camping, the back would swallow up enough gear for us to do Algonquin for a week, and leave enough room for beer.
That was where M.D.B. had her close encounter with a moose. Close enough to smell it and almost trampled in a single moose stampede.
You'll need to remember that for later.
Bluebelle served us admirably, but was getting a little long in the tooth. She was 15 years old with over 500,000 miles on her when M.D.B. got a job out of town, and just wasn't up to the task any more. One door didn't close right, the starter needed a gentle nudge from a hammer now and then, and the frame had some soft spots. M.D.B. gave me an ultimatum: I had two weeks to find her a suitable replacement for Bluebelle (preferably another Buick wagon) or she would do the unthinkable: buy a mini-van.
While I frantically searched papers, magazines and online she quietly put out the word she was shopping for a new ride. A little more than a week later our mechanic showed up at our door one Saturday morning with a Caprice sedan. "Very nice," says M.D.B., "But not big enough for our us, our stuff and Simba, our 130 lb. Lab ." He says to let him work on it a bit and shows up half an hour later.
It was red.
Very red.
Aluminum rims.
Roof rack.
A mini-van.
A four year old Windstar, 124,000 kms, just off lease.
"Take it for the day," he says, "I'll be home this afternoon and you can bring it back when you're done."
So we packed up the offspring and headed out for a Sunday drive on a Saturday. It had almost all the options: quad captains (each kid had her own seat, yay!), power group, cruise, tilt, A/C, AM/FM/Cassette, big 6 engine, Aluminum rims, rear wiper, etc, etc, etc.
It was smooth and quiet on the highway, had plenty of power and you sat up nice and high to gain good visibility. The kids had pockets for their stuff, and there were lots of cubby holes for storing odd bits.
M.D.B. loved it. My only comments were about its vast expanse of red, it should come with a soccer ball (vague references to it being a soccer Mom/Dad vehicle) and it was a mini-van.
Mini-vans weren't cool. (And station wagons are? -M.D.B.)
Three days later it was in our driveway, tasteful graphics and pin striping on the side, and a soccer ball in the back seat.
But what to name it?
A dwarf star is also called a red dwarf, and this being a red Windstar, I elected to call it The Red Dwarf. Amazingly, M.D.B. agreed, and she was so christened.
Now, while pop and milkshakes and cheesies and fries and all that good stuff had been allowed in Bluebelle, none of that would be allowed in The Red Dwarf; this was as close to new a car we had had in many years, and was the most money we had spent up to that point. The kids had been warned; any transgressions would result in riding on the roof rack. (Don't smile, you'll get bugs in your teeth!)
A few weeks later, we were out for a drive and stopped at a favourite playground in Cambridge, with a petting zoo and a duck pond. Thing One, being the inquisitive little bird she is, headed of to feed the ducks while we kept watch from the bench, and Thing Two headed off to the play area.
The peaceful tranquility of the scene was breeched by Thing One's wailing.
My paternal instincts took over as I rushed to her aid. Fearing that a duck had poked her eye out, or she had been goosed by a goose, I checked her for wounds, only to find none. "What was the matter?" I inquired. Through her sobs she detailed how, in an effort to get closer to the ducks, she had stepped too far out, and now her shoes were covered in 'duck muck' and Mom will make her ride home on the roof rack. I assured her things would be alright, carried her back to The Red Dwarf, where I removed her shoes and socks. The shoes I saved by washing them off in the bathroom, and using the hand dryer to dry them. The socks were discarded. While I was doing this, M.D.B. reassured her that she wouldn't have to ride on the roof rack all the way home.
Thus was the first of many adventures of The Red Dwarf.
Later that same summer, while on vacation and stopped in Sault Ste. Marie, M.D.B. commented on how disappointed she was in not having seen a moose yet on this trip. A very short time later, Mortimer, a 10 inch purple stuffed moose with very hip John Lennon sunglasses (a nice touch added by Thing Two) appeared on the dash, guiding us for not only the rest of the trip, but for the rest of our time with The Red Dwarf.
Mortimer soon had friends. Many friends. At one time over 30 mooses (or is it meeses?) made their home in The Red Dwarf, living on pop and milkshakes and cheesies and fries and all that good stuff. There became such a herd of moose that they spilled over into our home and now number in the hundreds. But Mortimer remained in The Red Dwarf in his place of honour-- center dash-- navigating for us all over creation through all of our adventures.
The Red Dwarf took us everywhere; the beach every summer, Ottawa, Quebec, New York, Michigan, Ohio, the scenic vistas of Southern Prince Edward County and all points near and far.
She was even a tow vehicle in a Christmas Parade. Through dense fog, heavy snow, freezing rain and locusts, she never failed us when we needed her most.Other the years and miles, The Red Dwarf developed 'character'. The rear wiper quit a few years ago. The sliding door was sticky and sometimes required a big hairy man to close it. The rear wing windows were like a brother-in-law I once had, only working when they wanted. The "Check Engine" light malfunctioned and was on constantly, its error code indicating a non-existent problem. The dash was lit with a small light plugged into the lighter. Driver's side power door lock wasn't. A broken bottom coil on a front spring groaned with every tight turn, and at 300,000 kms, the rear shocks were there for appearance only.
While cruising through the scenic hills of Northern Kentucky a few years back, M.D.B. stated that although a new vehicle would be nice, all that was really missing from 'Dwarfy' was a CD player. Me, in my infinite wisdom, figured that a factory player would be the best fit, and that I would just have to plug and play.
So, on Christmas morn, M.D.B. opened a box containing a genuine Ford AM/FM/CD, complete with a 30 day warranty from our local wreckers. After borrowing the special stereo tool from my nephew, a Ford mechanic, I set about to amaze my spouse and just pop that puppy into the dash of her beloved Dwarf.
Not so.
Different wiring harness, so I went back to the wreckers and retrieved one out of an identical Windstar.
Still nothing.
I could hear it whirring, but no sound.
After some research, I discovered that in that year of Ford, an AM/FM/CD player needed an amp, which was mounted behind the glove box. Removing the glove box revealed a big empty space where the amp should be, and a phone call revealed that another $75 plus tax was needed for the amp. The total would be over $200, and after Boxing Day, sales would net a better player for less money. So that was the way to go.
The CD player soon developed its own quirks, changing stations when it wanted, spitting CD's at us when it didn't like them.
I thought it just added to the charm of The Red Dwarf. M.D.B. was not amused.
So here we were, bouncing down the road, Mortimer and friends dancing, CD player spitting at us, various lights on the dash winking at us, door rattling in time with the bumps, when M.D.B. declared, "We need to put some money into Dwarfy if we want another year out of her." I had just put new tires and brakes on her last fall, and the body was still good. With much thought and discussion, we decided to use the bulk of our tax refund to fix her up. Just days before the refund was due (past due, actually) My Darling Bride limped The Red Dwarf home with a bad rear wheel bearing.
I fixed it on a cold sunny Saturday. I also surveyed the rest of the work that was needed. A full front suspension, rear shocks, parts for the door. We could put the full amount into the Dwarf, and that still wouldn't fix the odometer; it read 330,000 kms. Windstars weren't supposed to last that long. The following Monday we made a tour of local dealers to see what we could afford, and, although hopeful, we came away disappointed. Filling The Dwarf up in Milton, a check of the gas mileage revealed no surprises; it was still 25 MPG (I never have figured out the liters/100 km thing).
Somewhere near Peter's Corners, it happened.
A loud grinding noise came from the front end, a shake and shimmy in the steering wheel. CV joint gone bad. Add another $300 - $500 in repairs. On top of all else she needed, she just wasn't worth it.
We found a vehicle we could afford online, a Grand Caravan, safetied, E-Tested and ready to go.
I was prepared to sell the tires and brakes from The Red Dwarf for a decent price, and throw in the rest of the van for free. Word of mouth found us an eager buyer, an older gent who needed a van as his wife had problems getting the wheelchair in and out of their car. I warned him it was old and needed many repairs, and I was firm on the $400 I wanted for the barely used tires and rims. He was happy, because he and his son could fix her for a few thousand and get some more years out of her. With one of the rear captain seats removed, there would be plenty of room for a wheelchair.
So, on another sunny Saturday some paper changed hands and The Red Dwarf left us for her new mission-- aiding equally elderly and gentle souls.
Her work here was done.
Farewell, Red Dwarf One, and Godspeed.
DJW
Footnote: The Grand Caravan has been dubbed 'Bullwinkle' and Mortimer has assumed his rightful spot on the dashboard.
