February 12, 2012
Free Login/Register
Saying good-bye to a trusted travel companion
Written by Donald Eng
Thursday, 19 November 2009 10:52
I never really considered myself the sentimental type. Certainly, I never expected to be standing in a parking lot dabbing away a tear over a piece of injection molded plastic.
But there I was watching the insurance agent remove our old car seat like a soldier pulling his wounded comrade from the fray.
Like all new parents, Maggie and I were determined to do whatever we could to keep Elizabeth safe. Like all who aren’t Saudi princes, that sometimes meant prioritizing or delaying what politicians call “wants” so we could focus on Elizabeth’s “needs.”
A year ago, when she outgrew her infant carrier, we started shopping for a convertible seat that could accommodate her as she grew. The one we wanted had all sorts of gadgets like cupholders, lumbar support and padded armrests. It also looked like it could survive a collision with the supertanker TI Oceania.
But it had a stratospheric price tag too, one that was just too high to justify considering we would have needed one for each car. So we resigned ourselves to a model with equivalent safety ratings, but less plush accommodations.
Fate intervened, though, when friends who shared my passion for sporty German hatchbacks gave us a spare car seat they had received and that had been designed for small cars. Now, needing only one seat for her car, Maggie and I decided to splurge.
A year passed uneventfully. Elizabeth whiled away the miles reading her books or listening to outlaw Southern Rock as her Kentucky-bred mom ran about her daily routine. Then, a few weeks ago, I got the call we all dread.
“We’ve been in an accident,” Maggie told me as I raced to get the Oct. 29 Trumbull Times to the printing plant. “Everyone seems to be okay.”
Maggie had been on her way from our home in Seymour to the Bridgeport train station to put her mother on the Metroliner to D.C. As they merged onto Route 8, a construction van rear-ended her car. The driver side front of the van hit the rear of our car on the passenger side, directly behind Elizabeth.
So if you noticed any typos in that issue, what can I say, I was distracted.
A few days later, at the van driver’s insurance office in Milford, the person handling our claim told me that once a seat has been in a crash, it must be replaced. Apparently the impact-absorbing foam crushes and will not protect the occupant again.
Buy a new seat, she said, and they would issue a check for reimbursement. An hour later, I was back with a new seat. Same brand, slightly newer model. It buckled smoothly, too, without 10,000 miles worth of Wasa bread crumbs rattling around inside the locking mechanism.
Staring at the patch of back seat where the car seat had been, I marveled at the amount of detritus that had fallen out. Judging by the amount of raisins stuck in the cushions, Elizabeth had been preparing for a famine. I also solved the mystery of the disappearing barrettes that day.
Fond memories aside, it was a sad parting. The seat in which Elizabeth had passed thousands of miles has been decommissioned. I had entrusted it with her safety, and it had delivered, sacrificing itself in the process. Had I known how, I would have played Taps.
