The Forgotten Fleet: Memoirs of a Honda Hoarder

Last night, my subconscious staged an intervention.

In the dream, my family and I had relocated to a sprawling house perched at the edge of a forest—idyllic at first glance, but the driveway told another story. It had become a graveyard of Honda Accords. Not just one or two, but an entire archaeological dig of them: gleaming new models barely broken in, others half-eaten by moss and mulch, some peeking out from decaying leaf piles like forgotten Easter eggs, and one—yes, really—buried in the earth like a pharaoh’s chariot. Another Accord had somehow washed up near the beach, sun-faded and abandoned like a bloated sea lion.

A kindly messenger—part real estate agent, part archangel—told my daughter and me about the beach-stranded Accord. So we climbed into an older model, the color of a liver spot, and headed to the coast. Upon arrival, we ditched that old heap to rescue another Accord of the exact same jaundiced hue. Predictably, the beach Accord was dead on arrival. My daughter and I, summoning the brute strength of Greek demigods, pushed it across the sand, up a mountain, and across California at warp speed—from Orange County to Simi Valley—as if towing the sins of my consumer past behind us.

We paused at a cousin’s house, where iced tea and human needs awaited. My cousin, ever the concerned parent, confided that his son was wilting from loneliness. Without missing a beat, my daughter rang up a stunning actress—someone so luminous she made Instagram filters seem redundant. She showed up. So did half the neighborhood, offering baked goods in exchange for a glimpse at the sun goddess. One woman brought a cherry pie, trembling with reverence.

As we continued northward, my joy curdled into anxiety. How many Accords had I bought over the years? Were there more hidden somewhere—collector’s editions with leather interiors and forgotten potential—lost to my Swiss cheese memory? Had I turned into the automotive equivalent of a hoarder monk, stacking sacred relics of midlife crises in the forest of my own forgetfulness? I awoke not with peace, but with regret, soothed only slightly by a tall, steaming mug of Sumatra roast, which I drank like a sacrament to sanity.