Saying Goodbye to the Mustang

Wilmington, North Carolina. January, 2004

I buy the 2003 Ford Mustang with $12,500 cash and my trade, a 1995 Nissan pickup.

It pleases me that I do not have to make payments. It also pleases me that I am driving such a nice car. As a kid, I never thought I would have a car like a Mustang or a Camaro, but here it is. I can immediately tell that this vehicle drives heavier than my little pickup that I traded in. I will also have to get used to the size of the Mustang. Though it is a sports car, to me it feels like I am driving a huge Cadillac.



I bought the car in part because I hope girls will be impressed by it. I do get a number of compliments, but so far not any dates. Maybe that will change…

Carolina Beach, North Carolina. September 2004.

My Mustang really looks beautiful, sitting in its assigned parking space below. I look down on it from the balcony of my condominium, one row back from the beach. The curves of the body, the shining white paint job, the sleek decals, all give me a good feeling. I own that car, I think to myself. That is what I drive. It is a cool car, no doubt.

Mom and Dad and are vacationing at Topsail Island, to the north of the beach where I live. I go up and have a good visit with them. When it is time for me to leave and return home, I roll down the windows and turn up the theme to the TV show, “Knight Rider” on my stereo as I drive away. Dad laughs and gives me a thumbs up.

America. January 2006.

Due to upheaval in my employment, on a whim I decide to move from North Carolina Las Vegas.

It is my brother, Adam, and me taking turns driving the Mustang on Interstate 40 almost all the way across the country. Dad and my Uncle Ken follow behind in the Penske rental truck.

The trip out there is one of the most memorable of my life. We stop and eat at a Cracker Barrel restaurant in Hermitage, Tennessee, take in the Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock, Arkansas, eat at a great Chinese Buffet in Van Buren, Arkansas, spend the night in Roland, Oklahoma, then Pizza and an overnight stay in Tucumcari, New Mexico, then the following night to Williams, Arizona and a little detour to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, then to the division between the Mountain and Pacific Time Zones at the Hoover Dam, and finally arriving at night at the Stratosphere Hotel and Casino on the Las Vegas Strip.



Once my family has left Vegas, flying back to North Carolina, it is just me and my Mustang out here in the Mojave Desert. I have come out here with no job, and eventually wind up as a salesman at a car dealership.

One morning as I am headed to work, one of the sales managers pulls up alongside me in his truck as we head down Sahara Avenue.
“Drive that Mustang!” he shouts at me. “Drive it!”

The apartments where I live have a really high crime rate. The zip code, 89109, is #2 in the country for stolen cars, according to my insurance company.

“Yeah, you’re not a real resident here until you’ve had a car stolen from you,” my neighbor tells me. “I’ve lived here for eight years, and I’ve had two stolen from me.”

I go to an auto parts store and by “The Club” to put on my steering wheel each night.



Almost every morning when I exit my apartment to start the day, somebody’s car has been damaged- a mirror or window smashed, tires slashed. My Mustang is just about the nicest car in the complex. To my amazement, no one messes with my car for the entire time I live in the apartments.

Alexandria, Virginia. October, 2006.

My Mustang rides me to work each morning at the Post Office- a miserable, stressful drive. I come home from work exhausted.

The weather is starting to turn cold, now, and I wonder if I am going to be able to keep doing this as I climb out of the Mustang around 10pm at the end of another long day.

I click the lock button twice on my key fob, to set the car alarm. The Mustang’s horn honks twice.

I have never known it to do that before. Normally, the horn just blows once to let me know the alarm is set.

I press the key fob twice again, and the horn blows twice in quick succession again.

Huh. That is puzzling, I think to myself. But I go on inside to my apartment.

Early the next morning when I go out to the car, ready to drive to the Post Office again, I see that I left the passenger side door wide open from where got out the Styrofoam to go boxes of buffet food.

To my surprise, no one has messed with the inside of my car. Now I know why the horn was blowing twice- to signal that a door was open.

Fayetteville, North Carolina. Spring 2007.

While I wait to start a graduate program in history at Western Carolina University in the fall, I work again as a car salesman, this time Fayetteville. It is a Chevy Dealership, though we sell a lot of used Fords as well. It amuses me that in Vegas, many of the salesman were professional poker players. They sold cars during the day and played in poker tournaments at night in the casinos.

At this dealership, no one is a professional gambler, but some of the salesmen are also ordained ministers. One salesman carries two cell phones on his belt- a phone for his customers at the dealership, and the other for the members of his church.

Cullowhee, North Carolina. Fall 2008

I have always done better in school than in the work world, which is a bit frustrating. If academic success does not translate so easily to success in the real world, then what is the point of academics? But the lack of a correlation is not true for most people. I am going to see if I can mix the two worlds by making a career in academics.

Anyway, here at Western Carolina University, I am in the midst of the happiest year of my life, and I fully realize it.



I am actually getting dates, now. Girls are riding in the passenger seat of my Mustang on an almost regular basis, which was the main goal when I bought the car.

Tallahassee, Florida. 2009

“You have that nice Mustang, and you take the bus to school?” One of my friends asks me.

In my first year of law school, I use the Tallahassee transit system to get to and from the campus. During all three years in Tallahassee, my Mustang gets a bit of a break. I do not drive it that much. The main trip I make is to the grocery store with my classmate and neighbor from New Zealand, who does not have a car or a license at this point.

Kissimmee, Florida. Fall 2011.

I park my Mustang under an oak tree at my residence and walk to work. The tree dumps a lot of dirt and leaves on it in the coming weeks and months. Dirt gets into crevasses and linings in the car which are difficult if not impossible to clean. It is beginning to become an old car, I understand, now.

On a trip to visit my family in North Carolina, my brother washes the car and peels off the decals of the horses on the doors.

“It makes it look like less of a girl’s car,” he says.

Miami, Florida. Summer 2012.

I almost get into a major car accident coming out of Miami International Airport. There is a lot of construction there. It is nightfall and raining heavily, and I miss seeing a Yield sign posted amongst the orange and white barrels.

A taxi cab traveling at a high rate of speed taps the front of my car, as I pull out into his lane. But he keeps on going and I do not try to catch up to him and flag him down. At first chance, I get out of my car and survey the damage. We traded paint. Black and yellow is scuffed into my bumper, and it will not buff out.

This year in Miami, I really grind the Mustang, driving all over the city in stop and go traffic. The trunk, back seat and passenger seat are all stacked with boxes of books and other supplies for my job. It is not what the car was designed for, and I apologize to it and tell it what a great job it is doing on a daily basis.



Live Oak, Florida. 2013.

The driver side automatic window has stopped working. It costs approximately $500 to have a new window motor installed to have the problem fixed. A short time after I spend that money, the “Service Engine Soon” light comes on. I find out what the problem is. Though it is not an urgently needed repair, it will be another $500 to have this fixed. At times, now, the Mustang is also not driving as smoothly as it once did.

It is time to get a new car, I know, though I keep putting it off. I like the Mustang. It has been with me for ten years, ten turbulent years.

Lake City, Florida. April 26, 2014.

Today I must say goodbye to the Mustang.

When I bought it ten years ago, I thought that it would help me with women, help me get into adventures.

I have been on plenty of adventures with this car, though the passenger seat has remained empty for them.

I could buy another, brand new Mustang if I wanted to. But what is the point? It is sort of like buying a nice large house with lots of rooms, and then living in it by myself.

Instead, I buy a new Ford Focus. It has a moon roof and a trunk that will easily accommodate a bike rack, two things I want that the Mustang did not have. The gas mileage will also be much better. Perhaps I will have this Focus for the next ten years. I will get into adventures with this car, too, though I hope the next ten years are not as rocky as the previous ten.

Just as I am about to drive off the lot in my new car, I see my Mustang parked in a visitor space at the dealership, the license plate removed.

I get out of my car, go up to the Mustang, and put my hand on it. The emotion that springs up inside me is genuine.

“Excellent job, Mustang,” I say to it. “You are the best car I’ve ever had. You have served me well. If there is a heaven, I would like to see you there with me. I will miss you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone walking toward me. It is the salesman who did the deal. I assume he is coming to move the Mustang to the back of the dealership and out of the visitor space, but he abruptly turns around and walks back inside when he sees me.

I am a little embarrassed. It probably looks like I am praying over my old car.

I tell the Mustang that I hope its new owner will treat it well. Then I hop back in my Focus and give the Mustang one last look before I head out on the highway back to Live Oak.

The Ferris Wheel

Kissimmee, Florida. February 2012.

I can hear the crowd cheering inside the Silver Spurs Arena. The rodeo has already started. I have never been to a rodeo in person, and I was looking forward to this. I debate whether or not to buy a ticket and see what is left.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" I say to a lady on the other side of the glass window at the ticket booth.

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you know if they've had the bull riding, yet?"

"Yeah, that's one of the first things they did. It's over, now."

That decides me. The bulls were the main thing I wanted to see.

"Okay. Thank you."

"I'm sorry," she says.

I smile at her and walk away from the arena. About fifty yards to the south is the entrance to the Osceola County Fair. Florida seems to hold their county fairs in the winter, which is definitely a change from where I grew up in North Carolina. I have always associated the fair with early autumn or even Halloween.

Night has fallen here in Kissimmee, and I stand in line for my ticket with talkative teenagers and guys wearing cowboy hats with girls hugging their arms.

"How many?" the man in the booth asks me when it is my turn at the window.

"Just me," I say.

"Just you?" he echoes.

"Yep."

"That'll be five dollars."

Once inside the grounds, I walk around for a bit, to take a look at all the attractions.

The predominant feature is the Ferris wheel. I have never ridden on one of these, either, and I think back to a story that my dad told me from his childhood.

He was at a fair, probably the Pender County Fair in North Carolina in the late 1950s or the early 1960s. He rode a Ferris wheel for the first time, along with his brother and a friend. Dad said that he was amazed by all that he could see, as he had never been so high in the air before. He had a royal time, too, as the Ferris wheel operator apparently forgot they were on board. They rode for about half an hour.

I think I want to go up in the Ferris wheel. In the darkness, I know that I will only be able to see lights down below, but I am still curious.

There is quite a long line of people, and I am hungry. So I buy a hot dog and a bottle of water to eat and drink while I wait.

After about ten minutes, I am close enough to the base of the wheel to see a sign that gives me pause. It reads in all caps: "NO SINGLE RIDERS." I have waited this long, though, and I do not know when the opportunity to ride a Ferris wheel might present itself again. So I stay in line.

Four men stand at the base, loading the passengers into the gondolas. As I watch them, I see that they are carefully picking and choosing who goes into each one. The gondolas swing back and forth on the rim of the wheel, and I suppose balancing each of the gondolas is an important thing.

Finally, it is my turn to get into one.

"Who else you got with you?"

"It's just me," I say.

"Aaah," the man exhales, scratching his forehead. "I can't put you in one by yourself."

"It screws up the balance?" I ask.

"You got it." He thinks for a moment. "Here, you can get in this one."

I sit for a minute by myself while people climb into a couple of other gondolas. Then one of the men directs a family of three to get into the gondola with me.

The family stands frozen for a moment. It is a young couple, younger than me, probably, with a small boy. The woman is pretty obese, and the guy is big, too, but in a brawny style. He is 6'2" or 6'3".

"Can we have a car by ourselves?" the woman asks.

"Sorry," the man answers. "I've got to put you in with him."

The husband tries to usher his wife in.

"I don't want to ride with him!" she says loudly.

This obviously embarrasses the husband, who strikes me as a good ole' country boy. When she sees his embarrassment, I suppose it occurs to her as well how she must sound, so the entire family climbs in with me.

I look at them and shrug sheepishly. "Sorry."

They say nothing, the husband shyly looking down at the floor of the gondola.

The Ferris wheel starts up. The kid has his head on his mom's shoulder, and he is staring at me. The mom has a small, sour frown on her face and avoids eye contact with me, though she is staring at her husband and seems to be wanting some reaction.

I turn and look out over the countryside. Though I cannot see them in the night, I know that the fair grounds below are surrounded primarily by open fields. In the distance to the north, I see a lot of lights. I wonder if these are the lights of Orlando. To the northwest horizon is another set of lights, some of which are neon red and blue. I wonder if this is part of Disney World- if I can really see that far. It would be nice to know. Instead, the lights remain a mystery.

The ride is over soon. The family and I climb out, quickly replaced by a young couple.

I do not hang around at the fair much longer after my ride on the Ferris wheel. Next time the chance comes up, perhaps it will be in the day- or at least I will know what I am looking at from high in the air. Maybe next time, too, a cute girl will be with me and I will not have to stress out a family of three... Maybe, but I have learned not to hold my breath, and to instead go ahead and take the chances when they arise.

The Christmas Tree in the Lobby

Last year at this time I was living and working in Kissimmee, Florida, with the Public Defender's Office.

In the lobby of the Osceola County Courthouse stood a beautiful Christmas tree.

The specific courtroom where I worked every day was on the 4th floor. During the Christmas season, I made a point not to take the stairs so that I could enjoy the tree in the lobby while I waited for the elevator.

There was something about that tree that reminded me of the Christmas tree at my Uncle Ray and Aunt Margaret's house.

Aunt Margaret is my mom's twin sister. She married Uncle Ray and had one child, Beth, who is a little older than me.

As a young child, Aunt Margaret and Uncle Ray's house is where we went to celebrate Christmas on mom's side of the family. They lived in Zebulon, NC.

Just like Maple Hill on my dad's side, there was plenty of space to play at Uncle Ray's house. Sports, either watching it on television, or playing outside, is how we passed a lot of the time there after eating a huge lunch.

Uncle Ray had a basketball goal, but it was a little hard to bounce the basketball because we played on the grass lawn.

The yard was big enough for baseball games, too, which I enjoyed with my cousins and other aunts and uncles.

Uncle Ray was a huge fan of Duke University sports teams. Usually, Duke played a basketball game when we visited on Christmas, and he made sure to be watching that after we had lunch.

I will probably write about Uncle Ray a number of times in future blog entries.

I never knew Archie Carter, my grandfather on my mom's side- he died when mom was just 14. Grandma Carter passed away in 1995, just after I graduated from high school.

But I still had all of my aunts, uncles and cousins from the Carter side, and family gatherings were still quite special in that regard.

Uncle Ray died suddenly and unexpectedly of a heart attack in February of 2009, though- during my first year of law school.

I regret not going to the funeral, now. I was in school in Florida when he died. I remember standing in the first floor lobby of the law school, listening to the voice mail from my brother telling me the news. At that time, I was obsessed about keeping my GPA as high as possible, as I thought my future and the future of my family really depended on it. If I had it to do over, though, sacrificing some GPA points would have been worth being with my family during that terrible, shocking time.

I am still not over the loss of Uncle Ray. It is probably a personality flaw that I can hold on to things like this, rather than setting them down and moving on. But the rage I feel toward god about what happened to my Uncle Ray and in turn the pain it caused Aunt Margaret and my cousin Beth is only numbed by my ever growing suspicion that there is no god, or at least not one that can be personified and that cares about us.

In my mind, aside from my grandparents, there are cardinal members on each side of my family who form the nucleus of who we were and are as a family. Uncle Ray was one of those cardinal members. He was also the first to die.

The Christmas tree in the lobby of the courthouse in Kissimmee reminded me of the tree at Uncle Ray's house at Christmas. The tree in the lobby reminded me of Uncle Ray.

I do not know if I will ever see Uncle Ray again. I have my doubts, but those doubts are too dark for me to dwell upon...and I also must try to hope. There is really almost no other choice but to hope.

I take joy in his memory and the memories of the Christmases past at his house, and of the beautiful tree with the glowing lights that added to the pleasure of being with family.

Nathan Marshburn