I recently read about a bumper sticker on a Toyota truck:
"Have you driven over a Ford lately?"
I used to drive a Ford Taurus.
Or as we called it, the Taurus-saurus Rex.
Or as my mechanic called it, The Retirement Fund.
Don't get me wrong. I don't think and I'm not saying all Ford products are bad. Just my old car. It was the bad seed, the black sheep from a good family.
Whenever I'd stop at a stop sign (which is highly unusual here in Quebec) it would just die on the spot. It used to break down so regularly on the way to driving my kids to pre-school that the other moms would look for us on the side of the road and pick us up enroute. I once had to tell one of those moms that after we all shared her car, one of my kids (and then a second) was diagnosed with whooping cough. That mom never picked me up after that, but others took pity.
Forget hopping into the car in a coat thrown over pajamas. Wearing warm boots and snowsuits for the 10 minute drive was standard form, because we never knew when we'd be getting out in sub-zero weather to stand in the snow waiting for a good Samaritan to happen by. Why didn't we get rid of this car right away? Because I had faith.
Faith in my brother-in-law who sold us the car and swore it worked just fine for him. Faith in my husband who said just hold on, hold on until Spring when we will get a van for our growing brood. Faith in our mechanic, a gentle and kind man who finally had to admit that as much as this car was his bread and butter, we had to do the right thing and put it out of its misery.