(There were about 600 car crashes in Minnesota that day, for the record.)

I loved that car.

It was my dad’s car. I have lots of fond memories of seeing it around when I was walking around downtown Northfield and he was at work somewhere close by. It was the car he picked me up in at the airport during my breaks from college. It was the car we would ride into downtown Northfield in, at 5:00 in the morning, for my early shifts at Blue Monday last year. (Dad didn’t have to be at his office that early, but he did it anyway because he’s a good Dad.)

It was the car Dad let me borrow on the weekends when I drove to pick Jason up at his school last year, when I was still living in Northfield and pining for my far-away city boyfriend. It was the car I drove back to Northfield in last winter and spring, when I’d moved into my place in Minneapolis but was still commuting back and forth for my late-night shifts at the library.

And, most recently, it was the car my dad allowed me to have full-time, after his parents gave him a hand-me-down car of theirs. I wouldn’t necessarily have needed it for work, but with such crappy health these past months, it was very appreciated.

It’s the car I drove Jamie in when we all went cabin camping William O’Brien last spring. The car I’ve hauled my comics all over the cities in, for MIXes and Zinefests and FallCons and SpringCons. It’s the car that hauled me and Jason to both of our families’ Christmases last month.

The great thing about having a tan Le Sabre is that you realize that every other tan Le Sabre you’ll ever see is being driven by someone who is no less than 80 years old and driving no more than 10 miles an hour.

I loved that car. And it kept me from getting my dumb icy ass killed the other week, so maybe it loved me too.