March 29, 2024

‘Til Valhalla

Sometimes you bite the bar, and well, sometimes the bar bites you. Wednesday was my birthday, and Friday the Lincoln burned to the ground on my way home.

I was on my way when the car stalled in traffic. The Lincoln has never idled the best, and I’ve gotten pretty quick at sliding the shifter back into neutral and cranking it over, but this time it wouldn’t start.

Smoke was pouring out from under the edges of the hood, stinging my eyes as I tried to find the catch to release the safety latch. When I finally got the hood open the engine compartment was already engulfed in flames. I slammed the hood shut and reached for my cell phone to dial 911. Sometimes you just have to surrender in the face of overwhelming odds.

It took the fire department less than five minutes to show up after I dialed 911. In 10 minutes, the fire was out, the antifreeze and transmission fluid mingling together with the water from the firefighter’s hoses, creating a rainbow effect as they flowed into the gutter. With its doors opened and hood standing straight up at attention, the Lincoln looked like a fallen soldier on the battlefield, as traffic streamed around it either direction. Gawkers did doubletakes, sending Snapchats before moving on, no doubt thinking “but for the grace of God” as they hurried to finish their evening commutes.

As the firefighters left, I moved out of street, crossing the road to find some shade under the trees. There was nothing left to do now except call John. As a journalist, I tend to make a lot of calls every day, this was easily the worst call of the day.

Fortunately, John took the news in stride. He drove over to meet me at the car, and we lit cigarettes and stared at the damage. The fire had started in the engine compartment, somewhere near the fuse box the car wasn’t worth much before it had caught on fire, now it wasn’t worth anything at all.

As we watched the traffic move past the burned out Lincoln, John told me how much he’d enjoyed a previous column I’d written about the car. My mother had driven a similar Lincoln when I was in high school, and like John, the car held a lot of memories for both of us. Other than a car fire, this was a Friday like any other, but to John it was something more. Looking at his watch, he turned to me and said, “You know this is the four year anniversary of my mom’s death, she died at about the same time the Lincoln caught on fire.”

I’m not sure if I can chalk that up to serendipity, but it’s a coincidence that’s impossible for us to ignore. After all, as a lifelong Presbyterian, I’ve been taught God has a plan for you, and you’ll be OK if you keep working that plan. It was hard to ignore John’s optimism, for him everything had been an unexpected bonus. Four years ago, his brother in law told him the Lincoln wasn’t reliable and would fail in two years, it had outlived that death sentence by a full two years.

Those had been two good years. It was a car made for big trips, made to run all day across the country. It took me to Saint Louis in the middle of an ice storm to see my friend Danny propose to his-now wife, and for years, it was John’s only car. Friday was the last day of a long ride, a run that stretched across the better parts of three decades. Next time we meet, it’ll be at Odin’s table in Valhalla.

When the tow truck drivers arrived it didn’t take them long to drag the Lincoln up on the rollback, and the younger driver shyly approached John.

“Would you mind if I took a picture of this, it’s not the sort of thing that happens every day,” he asked.

John smiled, gave him the go-ahead, and looked at me.

“It sure was a good car, wasn’t it?”

Contact David Dolmage at

ddolmage@newtondailynews.com