It really shouldn't come as so much of a surprise, but I still do a double-take every time I see a certain little teal-colored Subaru Brat zipping down the street. My first reaction is always, "Hey, who's driving my little truck?"
Well, it isn't mine any more. I sold it to a friend who got it running again and uses it as a daily driver.
Most of the cars my wife and I have owned and driven over the last four decades have ended up going somewhere else, never to be seen by us again. And we're fine with that.
The '49 Ford coupe I sold last year went to the Denver area and the '72 Nova, while only 60 miles away, has never crossed my path again. I would be absolutely dumbstruck if I ever saw my high school car, a slick '50 Ford Tudor, again, since it was driven all the way home by a guy who lived in Bolivia.
The only other car I still see occasionally is our old '55 Buick Special, which I sold to our good friend, Richard Crowson, cartoonist and banjo player extraordinaire. He takes great care of the Buick and it makes me smile every time I see it.
That's the way it should be. Eventually, when I see John Anderson motoring along in his Brat, my first reaction won't be shock, but a big grin because somebody else appreciates one of "our" cars as much as we did.