Emotion gave way to practicality when I said goodbye to our ugly, comforting minivan

When the first new vehicle my lovely wife and I had ever purchased, a red Plymouth Voyager, got T-boned and totaled, we needed a replacement vehicle right away. Fortunately, a neighbor had a Toyota Sienna minivan for sale.

That Sienna lasted us 11 years before dying at 186,000 miles — how I so wanted to get to 200,000! Though we've since replaced the Sienna, I'm having real problems getting used to being without it. It's like I've lost a dear, departed friend.

Here's the thing: When you spend 11 years with anything, you're going to get somewhat attached to it — think about a comfortable recliner, or a dog, or a neighborhood. I realize now I was really attached to my ugly green minivan.

I honestly thought it would last forever. (I used synthetic oil and everything.) I had that van set up just the way I like it, too: the beaded seat covers like the cab drivers use, a sweet Pioneer stereo, a roof rack for moving the kids’ mattresses around, and a tow hitch for my trailers.

With all the seats in, I could take seven of us to all those special events where it's so much easier to take one car, and, with the seats out, I could stuff full sheets of plywood or even a motorcycle in there. What a great car.

The Car Talk boys on NPR always made fun of minivans, but there is no other vehicle that is so versatile. Lee Iacocca saved Chrysler when he came out with the first min-van; me and all the other handy guys who stuff them full of wood and tools and who-knows-what and the many soccer moms who stuff them full of energetic kids thank him very much and still think minivans are terrific.

So here's what happened: The other day, I was on my way to, of all things, a root canal (my fifth, I'm going for the root canal record it seems) when, all of a sudden, the Sienna started to shake violently and the check-engine light came on.

I managed to get the van to my mechanic where he informed me that two cylinders were dead. Ouch! I immediately asked him to give me a price on a replacement engine, but get this: He refused to do it.

I'm lucky to have a truly honest mechanic, and he explained to me that, because of the vehicle's age and rust and leaks and dings, it would make absolutely no sense to put a new engine in the thing, and that I should just "walk away."

Believe me, I struggled mightily with this decision, but finally I could see that he was right. Emotion gave way to practicality, but not without a lot of soul-searching and remorse.

When we went to the mechanic’s shop to empty out the glove box and get the rest of my junk before saying goodbye forever, I asked my wife to take a final picture of me and my ugly green minivan, for sentimental reasons.

So she gets out her fancy-schmancy smart phone, one of several that I pay ginourmous dollars for the members of my family to have, and then announces that her camera function is not working. Are you kidding me?

So I got out my half-busted "dumb" phone, with its lousy low-resolution camera, and had her take the picture with that. Later, she told me the camera was fine, but some setting was wrong. Sigh. I sure wish it was the not-so-smart phone that gave up the ghost instead of my beloved ugly green minivan.

Then I almost bought a brand spanking new minivan, but, at the last minute, I decided not to. The thing is, I really use my minivans for hauling and towing lots of stuff, and the pressure of having a sparkling clean one was too much to deal with.

I'd be so concerned with keeping it spotless that I wouldn't be able to enjoy it. So I wound up getting a used Honda Odyssey, a very highly rated minivan, but I haven't bonded with it yet. I mean, how can you come off an 11-year relationship and just start off new? The only relationship I've had longer than that has been with my wife. (I really, really miss my ugly green Sienna.)

I briefly thought about buying a pickup truck instead of another minivan, but I didn't for two main reasons: one, I still have a need to seat seven every now and then, and, two, no one ever wants to borrow your car or your minivan or your motorcycle, but they always want to borrow your truck.

I'm not averse to helping out, I'm really not, but it gets out of hand. Here's just one example: I once agreed to help install a window air-conditioner in the spring. The person I was helping was fastidious, and the installation had to be just perfect.

Of course, then I had to un-install it in the fall. So now I'm making two trips a year just for the air-conditioner, and then other odd jobs started popping up, and all of a sudden it's like I have a part-time job.

Don't get me wrong, I love being helpful, but I work full time and own a house and have kids and there are other people who need my help as well. So that's part of the reason I didn't go for the pickup.

If you're not lending it out, you're getting asked to do something with it, and I really do have enough things of my own to take care of.

You know when you go into a really old lunch place like Mike's Red Hots on Erie Boulevard, and the edges of the counters are rounded over from all the elbows rubbing on them over the years? My Sienna had a feature where you could change the radio station from the steering wheel. When I installed my rocking Pioneer stereo, I lost the steering wheel channel changer, but I'd still fiddle with it in an OCD kind of way all the time.

I played with it so much that I wore through the black outer surface and was down to the white plastic below. Just like that rounded over lunch counter, the worn-through radio switch was a symbol of a long and wonderful relationship.

Here's another analogy that might help: Many years ago, I saw ZZ Top at the Nassau Coliseum. The show was phenomenal — Billy Gibbons is one of the greatest blues guitarists ever.

After the show, I bought a long sleeved ZZ Top concert shirt. This shirt became my favorite shirt by a mile, and I wore and washed it so much that it became, after many years, like a rag that I still somehow tried to wear.

Finally, after I'd cut off so much that there was nothing left, I had to let it go. This is what it was like letting the Sienna go.

Though the seat belts had lost their springiness, the doors didn't open correctly, it made all kinds of strange noises, it leaked, it was rusty, and the paint was truly ugly, that Sienna, like my beloved ZZ Top shirt, was supremely comfortable, like the comfort of a warm blanket on a winter night. I better stop before I start to cry.

If you happen to have an ugly green Toyota Sienna minivan (I still see them around), don't be surprised if there's a guy shedding a tear as you drive on by. That would be me.