Used: Black and Blue

Perhaps it's the Y-chromosome, but I'm probably less sentimental than Genie. She was saddened by our decision that Ol' Blue, our 1984 Volvo wagon, needed to be put out to pasture, or at least spend a week at the spa. Yet another link in the exhaust system had failed on our last trip from the cabin, and we broadcast our return to Minneapolis like the mujahadeen roaring into Kabul atop captured Russian tanks. That plus several long-ignored creaks and oozings mandated that we either "bring on another thousand" (B.I.'s explanation of the acronym B.O.A.T.) or proceed to the next vehicle. For my part, I was relieved to resolve that I would no longer examine its greasy underparts.

Last year, in a fit of irrational exuberance over the mercurial rise in our home equity, we contemplated buying a new minivan. We rationalized the need for increased space, and the gloss of reliability which a warranty would bring. We raved about the Toyota Sienna after a lengthy weekend test tour. But that dream has been postponed by calmer heads and the spectre of $3 per gallon at the pump. We lit on the idea of another 240, and found an onyx gem built in '93, the last year for that spartan breed of Swedish buggy.

I know this model causes certain hipsters to shudder for its solemn, reliable squareness. But I am taken with the practicality of every nook and angle (though baffled by their stubborn lack of cupholders). Ol' Blue moved me home from Brooklyn: I portaged my entire kit (sans books) north of the Great Lakes via Canada in its cavernous hold. U.S. Customs was so daunted by the prospect of scrutinizing my return--even the front passenger seat was packed allowing only a clear view of the right mirror--that they just waved me through, shook their heads, and alerted the highway patrol.

I took her for one final ride last night. The seller, a Volvo mechanic, had agreed to take the '84 in trade and tweak it back to marketability. As I exited the freeway, my latest exhaust-pipe band-aid failed, and for ten last humiliating blocks I was Zhukov blatting across the suburban steppe. All I lacked was a leather helmet and bugs in my teeth as I rumbled to a stop beside the gleaming '93. Godspeed, Ol' Blue, you served me well.

The return home was refreshingly smooth and quiet, and this new ride should give us years of secure, self-righteous motoring. The boys were sleepy and cranky, so we snared them in for a first family ride, and discussed a nickname for the newest member of the household. "Black Beauty" is already taken by the '91 Saab that shares the garage, but Cole finally nailed it: "I think we should call it Black Blue" he said, getting every last ounce out of the "ooo." By the faintest of chances, it could be his vintage first ride someday.