The Passing of a Legend: Ode to Yota

It was with a heavy heart last week that I let my cherished chariot go. Yota, my 1982 Toyota Corolla Wagon, hadn’t been driven for nearly 2 years since we parted ways when I moved to the land of hippies in ‘07.

Once there, I felt dirty, like a cheating, jilted lover, when I settled into my newly purchased ‘99 Buick Regal from Eugene, Ore. But I never forgot Yota, with her custom rust-spots and broken door handle, even whilst sinking into my newer full-sized, all-leather sedan that boasted a never-broken heating and cooling system and an in-tact muffler.

So now, as I look to gain another new vehicle when I move to Oregon again (Jeep Cherokee, this time), I remember the old Toyota, my first car:

There was the time I put snow tires on it, yet still skidded off the road and into the fire hydrant below:

Aside from a broken fog lamp, dented bumper and broken blinker cover, she powered on.

The next summer, in a fit of stupidity, Ben and I decided to drive around the hills behind my grandparent’s property late at night, unknowingly getting the car high-centered on a mound of dirt (that was definitely not on any road). A 4-mile hike back home, Ben said just three words to me over and over: “I hate you.” At least he didn’t denounce our ride.

The next week, Yota’s clutch went out. Fearing the worst – a massive bill to fix an old car – I was amazed when my grandpa repaired the injured car for a mere $17 by himself. Alas, I rode again!

Then in the fall, as Elk season reared its ugly head, I was convinced to bring my automobile baby to hunting camp. She made a fine woodsy vehicle, crawling up Mt. Fernan with a fervor reminiscent of a pack mule. It was on the trip back, however, that Yota’s true colors could be seen:

She may have dawned the head of a dead elk that month, but she would fail when trying to mount that same peak in the winter for deer season – halfway up the snow-covered hill, we high-centered once more; escape was easy this time, as I cleared the snow/ice away and we drove backward down the icy hill.

In the late winter, her driver’s side door handle simply fell off. From that moment forward, I was required to climb through the passenger’s side door to enter my car. Once in place, the windshield would need to be scraped free of ice – from the inside, as the heater/defroster was broken.

That spring I moved, and Yota would find her final resting place next to the old barn:

Two years later, we say goodbye to the greatest Toyota that Jake Donahue ever drove. She rallied hard to get toward 267,000 miles, the most difficult under my foot, undoubtedly.
We will miss Yoda incredibly; rest in peace (or pieces), good buddy!