Like a lot of guys who
spent time in England during World War II, and then were lucky enough to make
it home alive, my dad was a British sports car enthusiast.
Sometime right around
when I was born (and my sister was five) he bought a used MG TD. I don’t have
any memory of this car, but from pictures, know it was black with a red
interior. And it had style. I do remember dad telling the story of going out
with my sister in it one summer evening to get ice cream cones, and bring one
home for mom. On the trip back he decided to hold the cone in his left hand
outside the car so not to drip ice cream all over the interior. He knew how to
steer with his knees, a handy skill. But of course the ice cream started to
melt, and run down his hand, and run down his arm until by the time they got
home there wasn’t much of anything left to it. There was also the time, to be
cool, he had his arm out the window until a wasp got blown down his shirt
sleeve and stung him in the armpit…
The Healey I do remember,
and mom not being too pleased when dad rolled in the driveway in it. The TD was
worn out and rusted out - this was in Concord, New Hampshire - and it was time
for another car. Apparently she figured my dad, recognizing the needs of his family,
would buy something practical. A car with four doors and maybe even a roof.
Somehow he failed to see things this way and when an Austin-Healey 3000
appeared on his horizon, well, it was meant to be. After all, this car, despite
already being hard used and rusted was a big step up, with six cylinder engine
and overdrive gearbox. Where the TD was buggy and fun, the Healey was a hot
rod. And look! It has a back seat for the kiddies! Sort of.
The weak-kneed excuse of
a back seat did little to appease mom. She was indeed pissed, but also smart
and knew an opportunity when she saw one. And she knew what she wanted. “Well,” she said, standing
there with arms akimbo, “if you can
have a sports car, I can have a
piano!” So right then and there, in the middle of a downpour we all
clamored into the Healey and went to the big city, Manchester, to the piano
store. My sister and I sat in the back, um, “seat” and ate M&M’s, so what
could be better? We had a great time.
Mom marched into the
store, the rest of us in tow, took one look around and said, “I want that one,” pointing to a lovely upright
of some sort. The salesman was happy to oblige, a check was written, a delivery
order was filled out and voila! The piano would be in our living room in a
matter of days.
Somehow, there’s more
that’s memorable about the Healey than the piano, certainly about the sounds it
made, the throaty exhaust note for example. And the way we’d fly around corners
in it, the way the heater would practically melt your shoes off while the rest
of you froze. The sublime experience of fresh air and wind and sounds and
smells with the top down. I remember dad taking my sister and me to school in
it.
But of course the Healey
went the way of all cars and one day it was history. This had to be a sad day
for my dad. To further frost the cake, he surrendered some part of his free
spirit and came home in a Peugeot 403. Complete with four doors and a roof and
thank goodness, a sunroof. Having it open of course, bore almost no resemblance
to a top down experience but the Peugeot had one huge redeeming quality. Mom
was happy with it.
Important lesson
learned: When Momma ain’t happy, ain’t Nobody happy.
Years later, as a
Christmas present for dad I dug through the family photo archive and found
slides he had taken of the MG and the Healey, and had enlargements made and
matted and framed them. Christmas morning, boy did those ever stop his clock.
The guy sat there in his bath robe and cried. For a moment I thought I’d made a
mistake but when he looked at me it was clear this was not the case. The
pictures were on the wall in the living room before the end of the day, and that
night, admiring them, my dad sniffed and said to mom, “You got the better end
of the deal.”
Mom looked at him. “Oh
really?”
“Yeah. I don’t have my
Healey anymore, but you still have your piano!” he said. It wasn’t often my
mother didn’t have some clever retort. This time she didn’t.
Fast forward another six
or eight years and I was working at Harvard Forden’s boat shop in Lakeport.
That was a great job and Harv was a great guy. Any boss who wouldn’t fire you
on the spot for showing up on your first day hung over is a great guy. I
shoveled a couple tons of crushed stone that day.
There were big storage
sheds behind the shop, and Harv would occasionally tuck in a car or two over
the winter for customers. One of these was a mint Austin-Healey 3000. Oh, I
drooled over that car, and must have told Harv stories about my dad’s. The
following spring the Healey needed to go to the upholstery shop across town and
Harv asked if I’d like to drive it.
Pinch me! Ok, I felt
that. He actually asked me if I’d like to drive the Healey.
“Yes!” I said. “When?”
“Now,” said Harv and he
handed me the keys.
Getting in that car was
not so much a step back in time, but a chance to appreciate it from a (more)
grown-up perspective. There were the beautiful clocks, Smiths I think, and
other details, the shape and rich chrome plating of the door levers, the long
look over the hood. The in-line six fired right up and with some fiddling with
the choke, settled into a fast idle and a few moments later with the choke off
was ready to go.
Puttering out of the
neighborhood there was the feeling of the car, solid and light, the engine
smooth and very torquey. Yeah baby, torque is where it’s at. Onto the main road
I got into the throttle, relishing the sounds. Charging up to an intersection
where I’d take a right, the light turned yellow and then took on a distinct
orange cast. There was no way I was going to stop for a red before the turn, so
I did what any decent fellow driving an Austin-Healey 3000 would do. I
downshifted to second and gassed the thing. And WHAAAA! into the corner, flyin’, laughin’… and this is when I
looked over and saw the cop, sitting there, legally stopped for his red light
which was about to turn green.
The word which crossed
my mind at that moment is not suitable for a G rated blog post so I’ll skip it.
I looked at him and he looked at me, and I smiled at him and he smiled at me,
and I stayed on the gas. And when his light turned green he went along on his
way as though nothing had happened.
Proof, there are some
decent cops in this world. More than a few, I can assure you.
Gordon Bunker
