My Mothers Jag Essay, Research Paper

Looking at the pile of burnt mangled metal, I thought to myself that maybe it was not the car we once owned. I for the life of me could not come terms with the fact that the heap of junk sitting before me was once an icon of passion and utter devotion. Out of all that was left not one thing was worth saving. It still bewilders me how people can take something and not feel any remorse for what memories they are preventing their victims from having. There were so many good times to come and now I would experience none of them. All I was left with was the memories already had. I reflected upon the dry, November Sunday night when my mom drove up into the drive. She had just bought a British Racing Green 1971 Jaguar XKE cabriolet. It was the first time I actually felt true passion for something. My mother had always been into cars even as a little girl. It was something she got from her father. She was a true Jaguar fanatic and it wouldn t be long before I was following in her footsteps. This moment had been talked about for so long and for it to have finally happened was truly a marvelous occasion. The car was pristine perfect in every way. It had been completely restored from the frame up. It even came with a baby book showing all the work that had gone into it. I remember sitting in the driver s seat, looking out over the long reflective bonnet. Knowing that five point three liters of V12 rest beneath it. I would put one hand on the steering wheel and one on the shifter knob, close my eyes, and dream of the day I would be allowed to take it out on the road myself. The smell of new leather and wood varnish burned its way into my memory. I fell in love with the perfect walnut dash and all the shiny chrome gauges. It was the first time I had ever seen a car that had wood inside it. There was no radio, no air conditioner, and all the controls were plain switches with small pictures underneath. I turned the key for the first time and all two hundred and seventy two caffeine crazed horses came to life, followed by the smooth thunderous purr that resonated throughout the garage as the car sat idling. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. To this day I have not encountered another automobile that comes close to performing the flawless symphony of exhaust resonation that my mothers Jaguar played.To some people including my father, a car is merely a car. They feel that a cars only use should be for transportation. At the time I was amazed that my father even let my mother buy the car. But now that I am older and am experiencing a long-term relationship of my own, I feel as if I understand his situation a little more. This particular Jaguar was not significant to me in a material sense as much as it was in a sentimental sense. It became a common ground for my mother and I. It wasn t that we didn t have fun together before we bought it we had a great relationship. But whenever we were driving around in the Jag, we were on top of the universe. Wherever we would go, we would receive honks, waves, and gestures to look our way. I loved riding in that car. I remember going to school one morning with the top down. The sun was just starting to shine and the smell of wet dew was in the air. There were very few clouds in the sky and at that very moment I did not have a care in the world. I thought to myself if I could choose one moment to live for the rest on my life it would be this one right now.

In high school the comments came pouring in, and I began to realize that my time alone with the car was almost here. I envisioned picking up girls for dates, going to the prom, or just cruising around town with my friends. Or rather friend, since it was only a two seater. Then it happened two months before I turned sixteen. My mother and I had been doing some shopping for my Father s Birthday. We walked out of the store with smiles on our faces very pleased with the purchases we had made only to have them replaced with ones of confusion. The car was gone. I don t know if any of you have ever had a car stolen before but it is a situation quite unlike any other. The last thing on your mind is that your car was actually stolen. At first we thought that my father was playing a joke on us. We looked all around but neither he nor the car were anywhere to be seen. So we flagged down the foulest smelling, overweight, mall security guard on the planet and he called the police.The policeman filed a report and insured us that everything would be all right. His exact words were don t worry they wont get very far in a car like that. Well catch them before you get home. That was a lie! It was the next morning before we got that phone call. They told us that they had found our car and that we would need to come and identify it. Excited and happy that our police force was so top notch we jumped in the car and raced down to the pound. They put us in a little golf cart and drove us back to be reunited. When the cart stopped, so did my heart. We sat looking at a pile of burnt scrap. In no way shape or form did that car look like the one we had lost. The officer explained that they most likely stole the wheels and torched the car to destroy their fingerprints and such. It was found in the center of a field with ten-foot flames towering above it. The body panels had all melted, the interior was soot and ash, the trunk had vaporized when the fuel tanks exploded, it was the saddest thing I had ever encountered in my life. How could people be so cruel? I would have rather they kept the car than destroyed it. Now I know that to some people this may seem a little over dramatic. Crying over a destroyed Jaguar. Some people may think, that s a problem I would love to have. But it is not the car that I am sad about. It was the great times I had experienced in the car with my mother that would be no more, that I was sad about. I thought that my mother would buy another one but instead she got a new Jag. It was nice but not the same. I spend a lot of time thinking about the great times I had in that car. I am looking forward to buying my own, so that I can share the same experiences with my son. Or maybe even relive a few with my mother.