The Flog – The Fabry Log

March 25, 1985. My wife gave birth to our firstborn and we stared at that little miracle with tears. Later that night, after they were tucked snugly in bed, I floated onto the Chicago streets. It was 3 in the morning but I wasn’t scared to walk home. I was a dad.

But things changed two days later. I pulled up to the hospital in our Plymouth Horizon, a gift from Andrea’s parents, and strapped Erin in and drove her home.

As our family grew, we needed a larger car. We bought a Ford Taurus station wagon with a rear facing third seat. Cloth, of course. Erin and Megan loved to wave at semis from back there.

It was that maroon Ford Taurus that we drove to camp one summer, and when Erin wouldn’t stop whatever she was doing, I can’t remember what, I pulled over and made her ride in the third seat with the sleeping bags.

Then came the Chevy Suburban. Near a dusty cornfield in Indiana I pulled over and pulled Erin out. (There is a theme here.) I spoke forcefully but I didn’t know her love language. From the open window came my wife’s worried voice, “Please don’t hurt my baby!”

Then came the 15 passenger van Erin hated. And another Suburban. And by this time, she was driving. Those were wonderful days as Erin found her unique path on the road. I remember the right passenger mirror of the Ford Escort meeting our neighbor’s mailbox and merges onto I-25 that left me with that queasy, first-time-you’ve-ever-looked-over-the-edge-of-the-Grand-Canyon feeling.

Then came her first car. I surprised her with a Honda Accord that was older than she was. And she loved it.

However, the most memorable car story with Erin came when she was 8 years old. My father had given me his 1980 Diesel VW Rabbit. This car sounded like a tank, rattled like one of his old tractors, and when it got below freezing the glow plugs wouldn’t fire. In cold snaps it sat for days. The fuel tank also shrunk and the gauge didn’t work so you never knew when you were running out of fuel.

I sold the Rabbit to a friend who had a paper route, Scott Borg. (Later, his customers would complain about the noise so much that he had to sell it.) I signed the title and waved as he chugged away. When I turned I noticed Erin’s puckered chin. She was crying as she watched the Rabbit leave.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” I thought she had fallen. Perhaps she left a doll in the backseat.

No. She was upset the Rabbit was gone. With further probing I realized this was not just a car to her. We drove to the library and ran errands in the Rabbit. This was the car she looked for as I returned from work, that woke her up when I pulled up at night. To her, this car was part of the family.

I took her inside and tried to explain. Another car would feel less like I was driving a jackhammer. Another car with fewer miles and a bigger gas tank will be a wonderful addition to our family. It’s not that we don’t like the Rabbit, it’s just that we need something else. It was time for the Rabbit to park in another driveway.

I tried to convince her, but she couldn’t stop the tears. There was a loss in her life, a hole only an old diesel Rabbit could fill. And once that thing has wedged itself into your heart, it is always there.
The truth is, she wedged herself into my heart. And now, after what seems like about a day, it’s time for a new journey. I will walk arm in arm with her and give her to someone who will love and protect and provide. I’m not scared of the walk. I am a dad.