Nearly a dozen years later, the Wonder Husband towed her into the shop and started working on her. Completely dismantling her interior and exterior. He sanded her three f***ing layers of old paint down to fresh metal...his words not mine. He would know. The hundreds of hours he gave to that woman should make me jealous but they didn't.
He gave her new life for me. He gave her new life because that is what he does. A career? A passion? An obsession? At times, the lines blur. He chose her paint and fabric colors carefully with me in mind. Thinking about how I would look driving her. Thinking about what colors looked good on both of us. He made her sturdy enough for any man and stylish enough for any woman.
She was difficult, leaning toward temperamental at times but he never, ever quit on her. Like he never, ever quit on me.
She and I became fast friends. We had lots of adventures and cried together when she had a breakdown. Such is the way with vintage ladies. For four years, we tooled around town looking cool and claiming lots of admirers. And then a couple from Seattle said they wanted her. They wanted to give her a new home in a cooler climate. They wanted to drive her beautiful body cross-country to their 50th anniversary celebration. It was hard letting her go but they can give her the kind of life we can't. We have more cars, that are in the same sad shape she was when we got her, that need tender attention.
We said our goodbyes and watched her tail lights as they rolled off into the sunset.
Fly, little birdie, fly away to your new home.