Goodbye, Dear Friend

Memories are funny. Often stimulated by sight or smell. Often stimulated by location or time.
I lost a lot of memories yesterday.
We sold our Suburban.
That shouldn't be an emotional decision, right? I'm not a real car aficionado, so it's not like it was tricked out by anyone's standard. I'm far from fanatical when it comes to its cleanliness or appearance. The sticker on the back window didn't include Eve, or Hyrum, for that matter. I'm not car-less, so I can drive the replacement (kinda tricked out but not new) Suburban wherever I need to go.
I've driven that car for almost eight years, and as the time drew closer to let it go, I got a little nostalgic:

I remember driving to Idaho for the transaction: Dad was selling cars and he'd picked this one out for us: 2002 white LS with four-wheel drive (its only real upgrade).
I remember taking it to Mexico a few weeks later: it was initiated to life in the Denton family with a spray of grape Shasta soda when I accidentally opened the tailgate without properly investigating the shift in cargo.
I remember riding in it to the hospital for four children's deliveries: and bringing home three.
I remember all the road trips: kids and crap packed to capacity and still room for lots of snacks.
I remember cleaning it: two neighbor kids, on two separate occasions, puking all down the passenger door and out the window.
I remember random calls from CPS: driving to Phoenix with Brad's sister Nancy to bring Baby A (and others) home.
I remember the minor accident: it was hit by an errant illegal delivery man coming out of Sam's Club, and I was the one who couldn't drive home because my license had been mysteriously suspended (another story, not as bad as it sounds).

Eight years is longer than I've lived in any house as an adult.
Eight years is longer than half of my kids have been alive.
Eight years is longer than Obama will be president (let me dream!).

I knew every inch of that car--

where the rip in the passenger seatbelt was
where my cell phone fit
where the dramamine and mentholatum cubby was in the glove compartment
where the spot was to set the A/C and the vents for perfect climate control
where each radio station was on the presets
where my lotion and hand sanitizer fit best
where the seat and mirrors belonged after someone else drove
where and when to crank the wheel to squeeze it into the single garage space
where the gas gauge stopped to indicate that it really was empty

I never had a problem with that car--nearly 148,000 miles--and all it ever needed was minor body repair (accident and teenagers) and a new wiper fluid pump. I drove it, the lone driver with many kids, to and from Idaho many times. I filled it with garage sale finds, auction treasures, DI donations, and Costco runs. And NEVER did it let me down.

I should write a commercial for Chevy.
And get a new sticker.