One short ride, many years of memories

Still, even if it takes a stranger to make us realize it, we sometimes defy those words of wisdom and get attached to our things.

I have always considered myself to be fairly unattached to things. I never seem to have any trouble getting rid of things, de-cluttering my life along the way. Jack and I have done a lot of this lately, as we prepare for a baby.

One of our projects was to sell the car. Not just any car, but "the" car. Who needs a two-seater hot rod with a baby on the way, anyway? Not my husband.

The story of "the" car is one that's long and deep. Several years ago, a little more than a year after I moved to Shelbyville, this pretty little car and I met for the very first time. Jack and I had met just days before and on this Sunday afternoon, Jack called me and asked me if I would like to have dinner with him.

"Sure," I said. "Why not?" I remember how much I loved Jack's voice when he called. It was so sweet and so unique. It was a blizzard outside (I can't recall it snowing so much in Tennessee since that night seven or eight years ago) and, though I figured he'd probably be driving a truck of some sort, I told him we probably ought not drive to Murfreesboro for dinner, but we could eat somewhere close to home.

He showed up a couple of hours later to pick me up. When I answered the door, Jack was so pleasant, confident and didn't seem to have a worry in the world. I thought to myself, If this southerner is this calm about the weather outside he must really have some truck out there.

We walked outside and there it was, his relatively new silver BMW Z3 -- a two-seater convertible.

"Let's go to Tullahoma for dinner," he said.

I am always up for some excitement, and I hopped in without hesitation. More than me being up for excitement, I think I just felt safe, knowing I was with Jack (even though I barely knew him). I have always felt that way with Jack, and I guess, even back then, I knew no blizzard would take us down.

We drove, slowly, to our destination in the little car and obviously I made it home alive. Though my memory is terrible, that evening is one that sticks with me like it was yesterday.

We have had many amazing journeys in the little car, once driving through the night -- top down -- to South Beach, Miami. We have taken so many trips in the car and, as many times as I probably complained about not having space in the trunk for that extra pair of shoes, it has come to mean more to me than just a cool ride on a nice day.

It reminds me of that first date, the trip to Miami, Oklahoma (where we used to spend half our time), and Alabama (Jack's home state). When I look at this "thing" to which I've become attached, I see my Jack.

But sometimes life just happens. Time flies by and cars get older, people work a lot and need lots of space in their vehicles to carry their lives around with them, and babies come along. That's what's happening to us, anyway.

We don't use the car very often anymore, and because we need to make some home repairs before the baby comes, we figured we'd sell the car. No biggie.

Then, this man from Alabama called and wanted to test out the car. He was very serious about buying it and wanted to make sure I had the title in hand when he got here. Thankfully, I had learned, from watching an episode of Oprah, the secret to being your happiest is, according to the people of Denmark (supposedly the happiest place in the world), "less stuff, less space, more life."

The man came and looked over the car, which is still in beautiful condition, and wanted to take it for a test drive. Though I did not have a good vibe about this man from the start, I thought he was going to buy it.

Think Denmark, Sadie ... Denmark, Denmark, Denmark. We do not need this car. We need more life.

Of all places to drive to, things got almost unbearable for me when the man drove past my former apartment -- where I first met the car for my first date with Jack on the night of the Tennessee blizzard.

Denmark, Denmark, Denmark!

We began driving back toward my office and just as I mustered up some strength to walk away from the vehicle, the man looked at me, handed the keys over and said, "Thanks for letting me drive it."

What? That's it? In the course of the 12 hours that led up to this very moment this man had forced me to take an emotional journey down Memory Lane ... and now he wasn't even going to buy the car? How dare he do that to me!

Yes!

-- Sadie Fowler is lifestyles editor of the Times-Gazette. She may be reached at sfowler@t-g.com or 684-1200.