Daddy Sent My T-Bird Away!

Here she is, our white, pearlescent bird. She wasn't always so lovely, oh, no. We adopted our '62 T-Bird in 1989. She was wearing old, weathered red paint and we parked her, unceremoniously, on the back lot. For a long time we just ignored her. Ever so often we would stop and gaze at her sleek lines, assuring her that her time of renewal would surely come.


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.

Rain, Man!

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While the right coast has become a giant sno-cone,

The left coast has turned on the water faucet.

Who the heck is that taking pictures while she's driving?

I would NEVER do that, would I?

I Have a Dream

Martin Luther King, Jr.'s, I Have a Dream, speech is one of the most compelling pieces of writing I've ever read. His vision, strength and conviction drove our nation to change. Yesterday we celebrated the birth of Mr. King in the United States. Since then I have been thinking about dreams.

We all have them, right? Some are big. Some are small. I remember the Wonder Husband looking me straight in the eye a couple of years ago and telling me, "I have a dream. And that dream is to see you driving this car I am going to build just for you. A Grocery Getter. That's what I want to give you."





I almost laughed until I saw the passion in his eyes and heard the truth of his heart in his voice.

Now, you see, at the time I was driving my Mitsubishi 3000GT Twin Turbo Vr4. She's a racy, little, two-seater sports car. Mama likes to drive fast and slam gears. But the problem was that, even though I could lay her back seat down for cargo space, she wasn't really appropriate for a lot of the things I needed to do. Costco runs were a little tight because of the small area. And taking the dogs anywhere was touchy. Not to mention hauling bags of soil and plants home from the nursery.


So, he built me this sleeper of a Chevelle station wagon. No one would expect this old lady in a station wagon to beat them off the line. She has a big motor that satisfies my inner speed demon. Her Flowmaster mufflers growl like a big dog. She is also the perfect mate to the Wonder Husband's El Camino and Buick Skylark. And, I have to admit, that she wonderfully fills the bill for doing household errands. There is a part of me that knows that the Wonder Husband probably felt using the Mitsubishi for schlepping was an act of automotive desecration. Every thing unto heaven has a purpose, and that was not hers.

But the moment he told me his dream I thought, we are so different. My dream is for world peace and unity, food for the hungry, access to affordable health care, bringing love to humanity, the ability to travel at the speed of light and warp through dimensions of time and space. And he dreams of building cars for me.


Who am I to trample a man's dream. Life would be empty and uninspired without them. Build away, Wonder Hubby. Build away.

What are your dreams?

Cougar, the Other "C" Word!

Photo: danger515 Photobucket. com

The word Cougar has been splashed around the media lately. A cougar is an older women who dates a younger man. While older men are lauded and revered--mainly by other men--for dating younger partners, females are often subjected to ridicule for the same. The word cougar invokes the image of a predatory female stalking its prey. Conversely, men, often called silver foxes, are portrayed as wise and handsome rather than cold and predatory. Cougar has a cacophonous, harsh sound to it just like the other word for a strong female that starts with a "C" and rhymes with bunt. This other "C" word has been unacceptable in public speech since the 1500's.

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I am not, nor have ever been, a Cougar but I did drive one for a long time. I loved her. She was very sleek and fast. When I slammed her accelerator to the floor, her four-barrel carburetor would give quick response. When she kicked in, yeah, that cat would run. She ate pavement and spat it out for miles behind her. She was worth every penny I paid over the years for speeding tickets. Miss Cougar always commanded respect, even from the ticket writing officers. They would walk around her admiring her long, low, lean lines, pin stripes, glossy black tires and sequential tail lights. They already new how fast she ran, they'd given her chase for miles. They would tell me of the best girls they had left at home--their Mustang's, Camaro's, and Chevy's. And when I asked them if they drove them fast, they would shake their head no, but a knowing twinkle would spark in their eyes. Yeah, she got respect...like a good Cougar should.


But alas, in a speed-lust frenzy, I decided to sell her for a newer, faster model. I had my eye on a Mitsubishi 3000 GT Twin Turbo VR4. Miss Cougar's rear end had a tendency to chatter and break loose a bit when taking corners at over 90 MPH. The 3000 would just lay down, hug the road tighter, beg for more and I would give it to her. So we looked for a new home for the cat. A young man in his mid-20's fell in love with her. He said he would take care of her. He said he would respect her. He said he would give her a good home. We wanted to believe him.


A few months ago, when my husband came home from work, he was very sad. He told me that while he had been out at the wrecking yard that morning, he had run into an old friend. Worriedly, I asked him what was wrong. He said he'd seen a horrible sight. As he walked to the back of the yard, he passed a twisted, crumpled mass of metal. He thought, what a waste, nothing salvageable in that heaping knot. Then he saw it. A of flash of paint...her paint. Miss Cougar, hardly recognizable and broken beyond repair, had not even one part left worthy of harvest and transplant. She'd rolled to the end of the road, worth nothing but the flat rate paid for scrap iron. We spoke of how we should never have let her go. We lit a candle.


I do not like this word Cougar as a term for females. It is used derogatorily and does not infer respect. From this moment on, I will use the word swan to denote a woman in such a relationship. In my opinion, any woman who undertakes the precarious nature of such a relationship, walks in grace. But this is a cautionary tale. A warning to the swans I so admire. Be careful in your involvement with these young men. They are full of promises, hopes and dreams, and high-energy. But in their passion and over eagerness, they can, all too easily, loose control of a fast, high revving, hot engine. Take heed that your front end doesn't end up mangled and your rear end wrapped around a telephone pole. Take a lesson from Miss Cougar.

Photo: mikeja.com Photobucket.com

American Legends

The low, throaty growl of glass pack mufflers carry long and deep on the wind of the cool night air. The desire for speed signals the primal brain to ready for flight rather than fight. The appearance of spring heralds the arrival of cars from all over the country. They roll into town and spin, like golden oldie time machines, back into the past. Thousands of vintage and classic automobiles arrive for cruisin' and draggin.' Some are daily drivers and trailer queens. Others are tubbed, frenched and fatted. Some are chopped and lowered. Others are customs, originals and street rods. Some are stroked and bored . Others are blown and Hemied. Some are primered. Others are one-off paint jobs. But all are here to enjoy these perfect weeks of cool nights, hot cars, and the police department's eye-turned-blind to the smoke of burning rubber.

For months, car shows, rod runs and Concourses d'Elegance will be staged. California, being an arid, relatively salt-free environment, is lead sled heaven. Car cancer, rust, is minimal and many models are resurrected to, once again, shine their lights in the aprés-winter climate. The trifecta of auto collecting is an original, good condition, unrestored, California rust-free car with black-letter-on-yellow-background license plates. If you have one of these, feel free to tack $$ on to your price.

Cars. For as long as I can remember, I have loved them! My first real memory of a car is from when I was very young. Perhaps four or five years old. As a young child, I remember riding around in my nana's green, 1948 Chevy. "Nellie," as nana called her, had coil spring seats. Tall from a child's point of view, they beckoned to be climbed. I felt as tall and safe in those seats as I did in my nana's arms when she sat and held me on her frieze covered chesterfield. Nellie's soft, short-bristled, mohair upholstered seats playfully tickled the backs of my stubby, summer-bared legs as we drove to the grocery store.

I loved looking at mom and dad's old, black, embossed leather photo albums filled with pictures of young adults I scarcely recognized as my parents. Curly edged photos framed black and white images of young women wearing the soft, bobbed hairdos of the 50s, men's collared, white, dress shirts, rolled-cuff dungarees and saddle Oxford shoes over white bobby socks. Often, a strand of pearls outlined the neckline of a cardigan sweater set layered over a full, mid-calf length, plaid skirt. The boys wore white T-shirts, blue jeans, black leather shoes and Pompadour hair styles. In many of the photos, the teens posed on or around cars. There were many photos of my mom and her friends striking movie star poses--one hand on the hip and the other hand on the back of their head.

One of my favorite pictures was of my father around age twenty wearing the khaki uniform of an Army Private First Class. He was standing in front of his rounded, black, 1949 Chevrolet Business Coupe--straight, proud and holding salute. Tan against black. Straight against curve. Flesh against metal. Refracting star strikes of light caromed off the Chevy's gleaming chrome bumper back into my eyes.

And I was in love. As infatuated with cars, as I was with my daddy, the center of my universe. As infatuated with cars as Americans have been for over a hundred years. Inventor Henry Ford had the vision of bringing the automobiles role from a luxurious status symbol of the rich to that of being a necessity to the masses. He said, "I will build a car for the great multitude." American tenacity, independence, perseverance, imagination and pioneer spirit became synonymous with the automobile the instant he rolled his first Model T off the assembly line in 1908. Henry had produced a car, affectionately known as the "Tin Lizzie," that was affordable to ordinary people. With this act, he undeniably changed the American way of life.

This profound change has become ingrained in our belief system, culture, music and movies. Men like Preston T. Tucker and John Z. DeLorean have continued to link the automobile to American individualism. Tucker, in the 50's and DeLorean, again in the 80s, challenged the great motor corporations of their times by attempting to establish sole-proprietor managed auto manufacturing factories. Their roguish attempts failed, but their cars, the Tucker and the DeLorean, exist as monuments to their independence.

Our music reflects the power of vehicular perseverance in such songs as the Beach Boys "409," "Little Deuce Coupe," and "Fun, Fun, Fun." In "Shut Down," their simple rhythms and intricate harmonies laud the Fuel-Injection Stingray, a Super Stock Dodge, and a 413. Wilson Pickett croons "Mustang Sally." The Rip Chords' "Hey Little Cobra," lives as testament to muscle cars of the 60s. Drag racing's demise was chronicled in the tearful "Dead Man's Curve" by Jan and Dean.

In the the 1950s, actor James Dean's portrayal of a rebellious, drag racing teenager insured that the automobile would live on as a celluloid icon to American life. His subsequent and eerie, early demise on September 30, 1955 linked the tragic, brooding star to the car crash of his Porsche Spyder 550. He died at the intersection of Route 466 and 41 near Cholame, California on his way to a racing event with his mechanic, Rolf Wuetherich. Ironically, he had filmed a public commercial for car safety just prior to his crash. In it, he cautioned teenagers to drive safely because, "The life you save might be mine." A black-and-white 1950 Ford Custom Tudor driven by a 23-year-old Cal Poly student, Donald Turnupspeed, was coming from the opposite direction. Attempting to take the fork onto State Route 41, he crossed into James Dean's lane without seeing him. Both cars hit almost straight on.

Dean's last words, "He's going to see us," infinitely race across the winds of eternity.