I’m going to miss my old Pontiac, even with its multiple malfunctions

My windshield wipers work only when the left turn signal is displayed. The lock to the driver’s side door is broken. A crack zigzags its way across my windshield. Neither the cruise control nor alarm has worked for five years.

That hideous check engine light has shone brightly since the turn of the century. What does this mean? Nobody seems to know, other than the light itself seems to be functioning quite well.

One headlight shines brighter than the other. That’s fine. I don’t have to look at them when I’m driving.

Part of the hood is scratched and dented from the hoof of a deer, which successfully used my car as a launching pad to reach the other side of the road and escape into the night.

The radio picks up only a handful of FM stations and the CD player hasn’t worked since Britney Spears was innocent.

The center console has always been a place to store documents, pens and other miscellaneous goodies. It’s still good for that, but its cover — which also serves as my armrest — has come unhinged.

An oil leak has contributed to the painting of my driveway for years. I suppose 10W30 can be viewed as abstract art. Sometimes the low engine oil level light comes on. I figure it’s a good idea to put a couple of quarts in right away if I want to preserve my automobile.

The backseat has a few stains. I have no idea what the stains are, but I can’t remove them. Doesn’t really matter. I don’t sit there anyway.

It’s tough to load the trunk after sunset. Why? The trunk light no longer functions. I suppose I could replace the bulb, but I haven’t gotten around to it.

The battery has been replaced three or four times. So have the alternator and starter. Notice a trend here? I’m convinced there’s a short somewhere, but nobody around here has been able to solve the riddle. At least when she won’t crank, I have a good idea what the problem might be.

My 1994 Pontiac Grand Prix has 196,000 miles on it. I’ve driven that thing all over the state, to the Super Bowl, the Masters, Talladega, the Florida beaches and the Tennessee mountains.
I have newer vehicles that have operable windshield wipers. But my old red car still rides like a dream.

Despite its infirmities, I don’t hesitate to say it’s the best car I ever owned.

It’s easy to grow attached to cars. Over time, our hands and steering wheel become one with the ride. They are extensions of ourselves, whether we are taking curves too fast to the tunes of Sammy Hagar, or simply cruising late at night with the brights on trying to make our way home.

Sometimes we take refuge within the seats of our vehicles. Windows rolled up. Radio on. Nothing inside the compartment but you and a few empty cans of Diet Mountain Dew on the floor. Inside there is peace. Inside there is sanctity.

It appears the time has come for me to part ways with my red Pontiac and the handful of petrified French fries that I’m sure occupy the space below my seat. There are questions about dependability, among other necessary functions. I’m going to miss that car, stains in the backseat and all.

Joe McAdory is editorial page editor for the Opelika-Auburn News. He can be reached at 737-2549 or