When people ask me where I'm from, I say Detroit; mainly because they'll recognize it over my small-town suburban home where we feel lucky to show up on the weather map. As such, it's pretty much expected that I know something about cars. Which I do.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not a gear-head. But I know the basics, like how to change a tire or give a jump, and I really enjoy looking at (and photographing) cars.
My brother and I have started the tradition of going down to the North American International Auto Show (NAIAS) each January and on Father's Day weekend, a group of friends and I go camping in a little town that holds an annual car show with some BEAUTIFUL classics.
Honestly, I want a Corvette Stringray (pictured above). But this is my car:
We call it "The Red Baron" because it's never been in a serious crash (that we know of, knock on wood.) That's my Dad. He just finished fixing the hood after it got crunched hitting a deer (not as badly as the deer was thankfully...)
ANYWAY.
My beater does the job. It (usually) goes when I tell it to without a fight and has working brakes, lights, and a heated seat. Beyond that, it's hit or miss.
I do try and take good care of my car, putting more and more money into it to keep it running, "just a few months more." I will honestly be sad to see it go. However, I make no special efforts to try and keep it clean.
Why should I?
The ol' rust bucket can wait until the next rain to get the bird poop off the doors I don't use, (I usually ride solo) and if the apocalypse does come, I've got enough crumbs in there to sustain me a few good months.
So even if it makes my Grandfather roll in his grave (being a Ford line-worker in his prime) I don't see the point in going out and getting a five dollar wash when it's just gonna get pooped on again that same week.
If you don't like it, get out and walk.
Best and Love,
~Auntie Em