Burning Smell Leads to Burning Desire for New Wheels

Mom on the Run

By LIANNE WILKENS

I looked around, I confess. I looked around, with envy, and lust. Want tainted my thoughts.

And, for a minute, I thought it was not want, but need.

I purchased my minivan in July 2002. She was brand-new, a shocking luxury at the time. But, “I’m going to drive this for at least 10 years,” I had told my husband, to justify the expense.

He had rolled his eyes, “Sure, 10 years,” he had said skeptically. He never believed we would keep it that long, but we went ahead and bought it, because with the kids we needed something reliable, and because a brand-new minivan was only a few thousand dollars more than a used minivan.

Oh, she was beautiful. Back in ’02 my brand-new minivan was shiny silver, with pristine dove gray velour seats, and – ahhh! – the fabled new-car perfume.

Now, almost 11 years and 152,000 miles later, my minivan is still shiny silver on the outside, but those dove gray seats aren’t exactly pristine anymore. She’s been in two accidents (Neither of which was my fault! Really!) and has a persistent rear-end rattle. The interior carpet is stained with the spills of 100 drinks and mud from 100 pair of cleats. The passenger-side back door handle is worn out from thousands of openings and closings and requires a hard yank to engage. And after a few months sporadic, weakened performance, the remote door opener recently gave up, and doesn’t work at all anymore.

But the engine is in great shape. Aside from brakes, tires, and oil changes – which don’t count, obviously, that’s regular maintenance – she’s only needed a set of belts and, recently, shockingly, a catalytic converter. That was a big expense, had to be done, and, my husband figured, a reasonable investment to get the van through another couple of years.

Because we have one kid in college and another one heading off in the fall, and a car payment is something we really want to avoid. Because I live and work in Manassas, and don’t drive far. Because we don’t need a minivan, really, anymore, and won’t be replacing her with another one, but she’s handy for delivering kids to college and hauling around Sunday School kids. So we are nursing along my minivan, getting as much time out of her as possible.

But last week, I noticed a burning smell. It started about a mile into any trip, and it arose on every trip. “Is it oil?” my husband asked. “What does it smell like?”

I had shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a burning smell.”

I did know that burning smells are bad. And so I looked. With lust and envy and materialism in my heart, I looked around and I thought about cars. I thought about two-door cars and sports cars. I thought about small SUVs and hybrids. I thought about new cars, and then, more realistically, thought about used cars. I thought about clean cars, and highly efficient air conditioning, and heated seats. I thought about cars. Longingly.

And now I’m looking at my phone. We dropped the minivan off for service last night, and, “I talked to Classic Automotive,” reads the text from my husband. It’s the moment of truth, and I hold my breath: how’s this going to go? What’s the dollar limit for repairs? What would be the dollar limit for a new car?

“What did they say?” I text back. There are, I know, a thousand possibilities. I chew my lip and wait for the reply.

“There was a plastic bag burned onto an exhaust hose,” my husband texts.

Oh! A plastic bag? I laugh. Snap! And my new-car dreams go up in – smoke?