Of marriage and minivans

If you notice an extra spring in my step these days, it’s because for the first time in about 20 years, there’s not a minivan parked in my driveway, and I feel liberated.

Oh, and, also, my son's getting married in a couple of weeks, exactly two weeks before my wife and I celebrate our 28th anniversary.

That's not a non sequitur: The reason I'm without a minivan is that I fobbed ours off on our son a couple of weeks ago after his car broke down for good. He couldn't afford to be choosy about his wheels, since neither he nor his bride-to-be have jobs yet. So, as I gave him the keys on the shoulder of Interstate 80 about seven miles west of Lincoln, thus ended my minivan years, unceremoniously, but, I hope, for good.

And thus marked my son's entry into responsible, adult, married life, for nothing says responsible, married adult quite like a minivan, even if it is 12 years old, has more than 150,000 miles on it and, like most vehicles of a certain age, has a number of little idiosyncrasies. Such as: The back gate won't open, and the door handle is missing on the left passenger side, so you have to reach around on the inside to open it. Sometimes, it won't go in reverse. But if you shift in and out of gear a few times and throw your back against the seat simultaneously (though that may be unnecessary, it feels right), it does eventually go backward, sometimes with a terrifying lunge. Also, the dashboard lights don't work, and to get the radio and windshield wipers to come you, you have to jiggle the key slightly. Finally, it has a measure of general wear and tear and some faint, unidentifiable odors that come from more than a decade of family use.

(I suspect the forensics crew from CSI could reconstruct our family history with a once-over of the van: some grains of sand from a couple of trips to South Carolina; a trace of cotton candy from trips to amusement parks; orange juice concentrate dried and sticky on the front seat cupholders, resistant to multiple attempts to clean it; residue of tears from tantrums and crying jags at the end of stressful, 600-mile days on vacation, most of them found on the driver's seat and steering wheel; hair oils on the ceiling from the driver levitating after a kid drove the van and left the radio on full blast; a fossilized french fry or two; and a pattern of unusual wear on the steering wheel, where I kept a death grip during drives through strange cities, or with fussy passengers in the back seat.)

None of the abovementioned flaws are critical. Some are annoying, some almost charming. Either way, I learned to live with them, to the point that I would be momentarily disoriented when I got into one of our other vehicles and found that, say, it easily backed up or that I could open the passenger door from the outside.

Which brings me back to marriage. Now, I know where you think I'm going here, and if you think I'm damn fool enough to draw some dangerous, ill-advised, smart-ass comparisons between married life and a crappy, broken down old minivan, well, then, clearly you've read my stuff before. So, let's get to it.

See, a marriage with a little history to it is not unlike my old minivan -- it's not exactly a well-oiled machine; it has some wear and tear; some days it runs a little rough, maybe burns a little too much oil, spews out some toxic fumes, sputter, jerks, shakes, sometimes stalls. Some days it's hard to get it into gear; other days, you feel like you're stuck in reverse all day. And on the occasional cold winter morning it might need a jump start.

Yes, I AM romantic, aren't I? Too bad I'm taken, huh?

But my old minivan was a known quantity, and reliable in its quirky way. For instance, once I learned the magic wrist action needed to jiggle the key to get the radio and windshield wipers to work, it never failed me.

And so it goes with marriage. None are perfect, but the ones that succeed do so because spouses recognize each other's quirks and idiosyncrasies -- some of which may grate and annoy, some of which charm and amuse. The latter need to outweigh the former, though not necessarily every day, or even every week, but for sure over the long haul.

So, in a way, I feel I am bequeathing to my son and his future wife a symbol of our own nearly 28-year marriage, perhaps even some essence of our partnership. Perhaps we can even call it our wedding gift to them, for my romantic sensibilities are matched only by my generosity.

Well, I think I've sufficiently driven this analogy into the ground and perhaps off a cliff. That wasn't so bad, was it? With luck, we'll still make it to 28 years after my wife reads it.

If not, I may need the minivan back, son, so I can live in it down by the river.