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Twenty years ago, I got an excellent deal on a 1990 Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais. A program car sold through a dealership, it was as good as new with only 4,000 miles showing on the odometer.

Our family was thrilled. It was equipped with a few frills of its time: air conditioner, AM-FM radio, intermittent wipers, power steering and tinted windshield.

Most importantly, teaching my teenage daughter how to drive in frenetic Atlanta traffic became much easier with an automatic transmission, a luxury our family had not previously enjoyed.

We called it our Sunday car. Today, we still describe it as such to anyone we think will fall for it.

You don’t see these relics out on the highway much anymore. Most that you do see are terribly faded. I took advantage of a recall several years ago when the paint began peeling off the hood and now, at 188,000 miles, it still looks like a brand new car.

Nevertheless, this model is no Valentine upon which to gaze, and people often mistake me for an old man when I drive it, especially if I’m wearing my fedora.

In what I thought to be a very clever financial move, I attempted to rid myself of this odd conveyance during the recent Cash-for-Clunkers program. Good grief. The federal government even rejected it. Said the gas mileage for the old boy was too good to send it to the crusher. What now to do?

There are a number of good reasons to keep it.

Despite its age, it still runs well and is a dependable second vehicle for short trips around town. It doesn’t leak or burn a drop of oil, and I’ve changed the oil and filter in it every 5,000 miles since I’ve owned it. Knock on wood, it has never required a major repair.

Despite its lack of character, this thing could become a collector’s item someday, like the ’51 Chevy, MG Midget, and ’63 Ford Fairlane I casually tossed years ago.

Remember, they aren’t making Oldsmobiles anymore.

Regarding its ugliness, I am reminded of a line from Charles Frazier’s book, “Cold Mountain”: “Marrying a woman for her beauty makes no more sense than eating a bird for its singing. But it’s a common mistake nonetheless.” I’ll take a $6 annual property tax bill and a low insurance premium over pretty any day.

On the other hand, there are just as many good reasons to put it up for immediate sale.

It’s getting old and, just like us humans, something major is eventually going to break. Too, this car has secrets — dirty little secrets — only a foolishly honest seller would disclose.

A close inspection of the left-side exterior will reveal faint traces of damage sustained when the driver of a tractor-trailer fell asleep while passing me on an interstate highway one night. (I replaced the side-view mirror with a new one but couldn’t quite wax out all the burn marks made by his tires.)

The window on the driver’s side will not roll down. (This flaw may heighten tensions when exiting a parking deck, ordering food at a drive-in restaurant, or maneuvering through a DWI checkpoint.)
Until recently, the interior latch on the driver’s door was broken. I don’t expect my makeshift repair to last very long. (This flaw will most assuredly heighten tensions if a police officer ever orders the driver to exit the vehicle.)

The design engineers goofed when they mounted the alternator too close to the exhaust manifold. Excessive heat chews them up, requiring replacement about every 40,000 miles. (The fifth one for this car is due up.)

The EPA gas mileage data that disqualified it from the Cash-for-Clunkers program is severely flawed. I get nowhere near that kind of mileage. (Worse, premium gasoline must be used to prevent spark knocking.)

The original shock absorbers went limp a long time ago. (Quite frankly, though, we find the thrill of swaying through curves and leaping out of dips in the road worth more than the cost of replacing them.)

My final admission is a sad and embarrassing one: I have never serviced the automatic transmission. The car has never displayed any symptoms of this sin of omission, but this inexplicable neglect haunts me.

A couple of years ago, a trusted mechanic warned me that replacing the fluid and filter this late in the game often killed a transmission.
Almost daily, I drive past a business establishment known as Hubbard Monument Service in Kernersville. They make tombstones.

It’s a constant reminder of my own mortality. When I drive past it in the Oldsmobile, we both shudder at the sight of another business located right next door – Hubbard Transmission & Auto Repair Center.

Preparing this column has inspired me to keep the car and take my chances on outliving it. If one year in human life equals three years in car life, the “Olds” and I are about the same age. In terms of care and maintenance, I figure we’ve received about equal treatment.

If I win, the owner of the auto shop stands ready with his wrenches.

If I lose, the owner of the tombstone shop stands ready with his chisel. The game is on (not to mention that Hayworth-Miller Funeral Home is almost directly across the street). I kid you not!

Tim Pegram writes books, articles and this column from his home in Oak Ridge. Contact him at timpegram@aol.com