Other articles by Bonnie Henry:

Bonnie Henry: The family tree is a pecan Opinion by Bonnie Henry : The Duke rides again Opinion by Bonnie Henry : More than music Opinion by Bonnie Henry: You'll understand why feminists fume after one look at '50s primer Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Convention wisdom Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Tucson's unique attributes make promotion easy Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Wedded bliss Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Marking history Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Soon as I walk in a big-box, I disappear Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Small world

General
MOUNTAIN VIEW RETIREMENT VILLAGE
MAINTENANCE ASSISTANT Engineering
SCHNIPKE SOUTHWEST
PROCESS ENGINEER Finance and Accounting
Tohono O'odham Nation
Controller and Assistant Controller Engineering
IOTA ENGINEERING
MECHANICAL INSPECTOR Health Care
CONMED HEALTHCARE
RNS General
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MYSTERY SHOPPERS Driver/Transportation
DRIVERS

Goodbye, Old Paint. After 235,199 miles, several sets of wheels, and more oil changes than the deep fat fryer at McDonald's, I've given up the Honda.

Four months from now it will be sweet 16 — just a year shy of its new owner.

"Thanks, Grandma," the kid told me as the two of us took the car for a last spin around the neighborhood.

How strange to see him so tall, so, well, grown, sitting behind the wheel.

What happened to that little boy who used to share the backseat with his siblings, as we rolled to the park, the movies, the roller-skating rink?

It was in that same backseat where he once proclaimed, so long ago it seems like yesterday, "When I grow up, I want to be a grandpa."

No use messing around with being a dad, after all. Dads went to work, pulled weeds, worked on the car.

Grandpas, as any fool could see, were the ones who took you to the beach, the picnic, the merry-go-round. Grandpas — and grandmas — had all the fun.

The kid had done his homework.

George Bush — the other George Bush — was still in the White House the day we bought the car, a brand new Honda Accord.

White on the outside, dark blue on the inside. Good choices. The upholstery still looks, oh, maybe 5 years old, despite a cavalcade of bottoms sliding across it all these years.

Can't say the same about the outside, which has sustained its share of nicks, dings and good old Tucson road rash.

It's only had one trip to the body shop, however. That came after an an old man backed into it at the grocery store and drove away. Witnesses got the license plate. He paid up, or rather his insurance company did.

Fifteen brutal summers and still it stayed white enough for me to confuse it with every other Honda in the mall parking lot.

("Heck, no, Officer, I wasn't trying to break into this car. I thought it was mine.")

As we drove through the neighborhood, I gave the grandson a little tutorial on the Honda's little glitches and idiosyncrasies.

Like how sometimes the main key won't open the door so you use the small key instead. (You were expecting keyless entry? Get real.)

Or how even though the seat belt snaps up against your chest when the ignition comes on, you still need to fasten the belt at the waist.

And best of all, how you can let down the backseat, almost doubling up your trunk space.

Oh, how I used to relish trips to the lumber yard. "Won't fit in there, Lady," they'd tell me.

Just watch.

A great deal of those almost quarter-million miles on the speedometer came courtesy of my job.

Phoenix, Nogales, Mount Lemmon, Why. This car's seen 'em all — as well as just about every stoplight and traffic jam in town.

Its most memorable trip? Perhaps the time I transported three Tohono O'odham women — and their long saguaro ribs — to a saguaro fruit harvest.

We simply rolled down the windows, they held their sticks out the sides of the car, and off we went.

Maybe the Honda will have a few new adventures. Maybe it will break down next week.

No guarantees, no promises. All I asked was one thing from its new owner.

"Drive safe," I told him.

After all, one day he wants to be a grandpa.