I sold my 1988 Chevy Nova today for $358 and a batch of chocolate-covered peanut butter balls. The '88 Nova was my first car, and I never dreamed when I bought it (used) at age 22 that it would be with me the next 12 years.

I could have never guessed that by the time I sold the car, I would be married, with a house, two school-aged boys, a baby foster daughter and a completely different career. If I had any inkling the Nova would last so long and so well, I might not have bought it at all – maybe opting instead for something that had a cup-holder and was any other color besides worm-brown.

The Nova was a simple car when I bought it. Even in 1988, most cars had power steering and air conditioning, two features the Nova lacked. I bought it because it was the cheapest car to get red circles (excellent) for everything, except the exhaust system, in Consumer Reports. I figured the lack of power steering, air conditioning, automatic transmission, tape deck and AM radio would make it lighter, and therefore more fuel-efficient on the highway.

The Nova's simplicity was its best – and some would argue, only – feature. Its brown interior meant I could safely spill coffee a few mornings a week without worrying about stains. (No cup-holder, remember.) Its brown, non-glossy paint job was basically the color of dirt, so while the car never really looked sparkling clean, it didn't need washing very much either.

Even being limited to FM stations was good – I became better informed on world events thanks to National Public Radio. The blandness of the Nova meant I didn't worry if I parked it in high crime areas. While friends bought car alarms to protect their investments, I counted on the fact the Nova was too boring to steal.

The first time I drove my then-boyfriend (now-husband) Bill in the Nova, I got a bit flustered while backing out of the apartment's long driveway and bumped into the side of the building, scratching the car and knocking off the side mirror. Without thinking much about it, I opened the door, grabbed the mirror and continued backing without comment. I knew I'd be able to reattach the mirror later with duct tape and wasn't too worried about the appearance of the car. Bill told me later he had never seen someone react so calmly when a part of her car broke off. But it's easy to be calm when you don't really care.

As years went on, Bill and I got married and had one child, then another. I kept thinking we might sell the Nova. But it was so reliable, so handy with its hatchback, and such a gas-sipper, that we could never justify selling it.

I began to really like the Nova for the very things that annoyed me before – the non-power steering made me laugh as I parallel parked, and the toothpick Bill had stuck in the radio to keep it working seemed endearing. The Nova was simple living embodied. And there was something freeing about feeling like we were "getting away" with owning such a small, cheap car while the rest of the world bought their SUVs. Who needs four-wheel-drive when you have front-wheel drive?

But I can't claim the Nova as my own, anymore. The addition of our foster child and her accompanying car seat was the final straw for the Nova. We needed something bigger. My friend Eric has the privilege of Nova-ownership now. Eric is a bike commuter who wanted a car to use in case of emergency. He's known the Nova its whole life, and is the person who taught me how to use its five-speed transmission.

Bill and I bought a minivan. It's not brand new, but it's close enough. It has cup-holders, power steering and little buttons you keep on your key chain that allow you to open the door without touching the car. It's a pretty shade of deep purple, and if I scraped it against a building and knocked off the mirror, I'd be very disappointed. I'm afraid I like it too much.

The sale of the Nova marks the end of an era. It was a car that saw me through some of the biggest milestones I will have in my life. And as odd as it may sound, I hope the spirit of the Nova continues to live on in our family. I hope we can continue to look at our possessions as sturdy, reliable things that get a particular job done, but don't hold much weight beyond that.

I hope we remember being dependable is a gift – how you look isn't as important as whether you're there for people when they have someplace to be on a cold winter morning. I hope we remember that our imperfections aren't tragedies, they're a chance to laugh at ourselves.

As I sit here, eating a chocolate covered peanut butter ball, I know we sold the Nova to Eric for a fair price. But I have an unnerving urge to whisper to my old car. To thank it for its brownness, its steady service, its lack of concern with fashion. I have a strange desire to assure my car I think it's worth much more than $358. But knowing the Nova, it isn't offended by the selling price at all. It has always had its priorities in order. And it's probably glad I got the peanut butter balls.

(Scobey-Polacheck and her husband, Bill are members of SS. Peter and Paul Parish, Milwaukee and St. Monica Parish, Whitefish Bay. E-mail her at ascobey@hotmail.com.)