I’m not into cars. So why did I travel 1600km to say goodbye to one?

I’m not into cars. I’m appreciative when one transports me to work or play without incident and I like playing “spotto”, but I have no care for brands, engine specs or the merits of electric v petrol.

So why did I recently travel all the way from my home near Byron Bay to Melbourne specifically to say goodbye to ROP, the nickname of the car I’ve owned for 23 years? It was because of love.

A big part of that love is for my daughter, who adopted our family car when she moved interstate for uni. I wanted to support her while she went to the wreckers to collect her personal belongings after the car accident that resulted in ROP being written off. But I also wanted – needed – to make this trip for myself.

I needed to say goodbye to the car that has been an integral part of my family’s life, including bringing both our children home from hospital, the trip north for our interstate sea change, both kids learning to drive, and then accompanying my daughter back south for her move to university.

Back in 2002, when I needed a new second-hand car, my cousin advised me to wait until I found one I fell in love with. I laughed, yet fate stepped in. ROP (his name was simply the three letters of his original Victorian numberplate and transcended his later change to NSW plates) was listed in the wrong price section of the Trading Post (remember that pre-online source of all second-hand purchases?) and was located outside our planned car-shopping radius.

By the time we arrived, I’d confessed to my husband that I’d tricked him into looking at an automatic car instead of the manual he wanted but, within five minutes of the test drive, we were both smitten with the cute yet practical red Toyota wagon.

Fast-forward from birth to death. A couple of months ago, ROP tragically met his end on a dark and wet night. My niece, who was driving, nearly managed to avoid the multi-car pile-up, but even hitting one corner was enough to have him declared a write-off.

Fortunately, no one was injured, but my daughter was devastated and I too shed more than a few tears. My hubby flew down to deal with the initial aftermath and, a few weeks later when it became clear my daughter only had a short window to collect personal belongings, I made a same-day decision to fly down to help, knowing that we both needed time to grieve and say goodbye.

Contrary to my expectations, the “wreckers” was an incredibly orderly place. The damaged cars were treated with respect and the staff couldn’t have been more kind. A little like a funeral home, they arranged ROP to be placed in a viewing area where, whether by coincidence or design, his damaged corner was not visible as we approached. We took a card and some flowers and were able to stay for over an hour, reminiscing and saying goodbye.

When I asked the staff if anyone else had sobbed while collecting their belongings, they shared that a man had recently knelt on the ground to pray over his car. It was comforting to know that we’re not alone in feeling such a huge loss of an inanimate object.

I know I can be a sentimental person. I patted my pre-ROP car (also a red Corolla) before a tow truck took it away and I give possessions a little kiss before popping them in the bin or a bag destined for the op shop. But ROP has held a particularly special place in my and my family’s heart. A few years ago, when both ROP and I shook during the drive to the mechanic after his spark plugs went, I honestly felt like I was escorting a family member to the emergency room.

Lots of other people love ROP too (my daughter’s friends even had a chat group titled “ROP is King”). I wondered about having an online funeral where everyone could share their reminiscences but, in the end, though sadness remains, my impromptu trip for our private goodbye has helped calm our grief. So, consider this a eulogy. RIP ROP, you were a much-loved car.

Vivienne Pearson is a freelance writer.

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