THE OLD MAN AND ME: And a Little MG

I came back inside. The farm was different, but the blackbirds still sang, and the night was still quiet. I'd just come home from three years in the Army (a two-day drive with my brother and his wife from San Antonio to Northeast Ohio), and all I really wanted to do was go to bed.

We'd made it to our folks' place (mine too, until college started), and they'd fed us way too much. We'd talked late, and I'd finally gone outside to see whether the night felt the same as it had one August night three years earlier. I'd decided it did.

My brother and his wife were headed for her parents' home near Kent, and then to an apartment they had rented. I was headed for bed as soon as they'd gone. But...

"Chuck," the Old Man said when the door had closed behind them, "I bought you a sports car." He was the absolute picture of suppressed excitement.

So much for bed... I looked at him. I had no idea how to respond, but I was sure my ever-ready savoir-faire would come to my rescue. But... remember, this was August, 1965. There was a new Ford out there that was different from ANYTHING else on the road. It was the first thing that came to mind when the Old Man said 'sports car.' "You bought me a Mustang?!?"

The Old Man's face fell. "No," he said. "It's just an MG."

I was stunned. I had NO idea what to do or say next. This was WAY beyond my wildest dreams. All thoughts of a Mustang went out of my head. But how was I going to make him believe it? I had to say SOMEthing.

"Holy Judas Priest!" I said (the Old Man didn't hold with taking the Lord's name in vain, but Judas made an acceptable stand-in), "you really meant it when you said 'sports car.' I don't believe it. A real MG? You bought me a real MG? Where is it?" I headed for the door.

"It's in New Jersey," the Old Man laughed. "I bought it from your Aunt Jean. You'll have to go get it."

I breathed a mental sigh of relief. He'd accepted that I wanted the MG more than a Mustang. The fact that it was true probably helped. My skill at witty repartee' came once again to my rescue. "New Jersey?" I said. "Aunt Jean? How am I gonna get there? I don't have a car. Besides, if I drive, I can't drive two cars back."

The Old Man laughed again. "Bus," he said, "you'll take the Greyhound - tomorrow."

It was Sunday night. We'd driven 1,500 miles in two days, with four hours real sleep, and I was gonna get on a bus tomorrow and head for New Jersey? "Tuesday," I said. "I'll go Tuesday. Tomorrow I'm sleepin' in 'til NOON."

"All right," he said, "Tuesday." And so it was.

The only bus going east on Tuesday was a late evening bus. We stopped in every town, village and crossroads in Ohio and Pennsylvania between Akron, Ohio and East Rutherford, New Jersey. We rolled into the terminal nearly 24 hours later. I was exhausted. Between the stops and the noise, I hadn't really slept since Tuesday morning.

The bus terminal in East Rutherford was at the bottom of a hill, so I couldn't see much of the town. I looked around and found a taxi. I gave him Aunt Jean's address, and tossed my duffel into the back seat. Thirty minutes later, after twisting and turning through what seemed to be every precinct or borough in the city, he pulled up in front of a two-story house at the top of a hill. "Here y'go, soldier," he said. "That'll be seventeen dollars."

I got out of the cab and looked down the hill... at the bus terminal. "I'll give you five," I said. "And before you open your mouth, let me say that you're welcome to call the cops. I'd like to show them what a seventeen dollar ride looks like."

"What about my tip?" he asked.

"OK," I said, "here's a tip. I just spent three years leaning to kill people. You should stop arguing with me. That's a two-dollar ride."

My Aunt Jean came outside to see what was taking so long. I pointed to the terminal. "Took us half an hour to get here from there," I told her. "He wants seventeen dollars."

She looked at him. "You get nothing," she said. "I have your hack number, so I'd just go if I were you."

"But he said he'd give me five," the cabbie said.

"He lied," she said. "Come on, Charles." She headed toward the house. I grabbed my duffel and followed her.

"Hey..." the cabbie said. I ignored him. I heard the cab start up and go.

"Won't he complain?" I asked.

"No," she said, "he knows better. Seventeen dollars, indeed! I wish he WOULD complain."

We went into the house. She showed me to a bedroom, and then ordered take-out from a deli. While we waited for the food, we went out to look at the MG.

She pulled back the door of a detached garage, and flipped a light switch. "There," she said, pointing to a low-slung, drop-nosed, black two-seater. "That was Danny's car. Now it's yours."

I was vaguely disappointed. It was an MG, all right. But I'd been expecting a classic roadster, a TC or TD convertible. But the car that had been backed into this garage was a 1957 MGA. This car, it turned out, was what was known as a 'solid-body coupe'.' It wasn't even a convertible. The top didn't detach at all. Most MGAs came with two tops - one soft and one hard. This one came with only the hard top, which was permanently attached.

But it took me only a moment to realize that nobody I knew had ANY kind of sports car AT ALL. I promptly fell in love, and only a guy can fall in love with a car. "Wow!" I said, "She's gorgeous. Why is Danny selling her?"

"He's not," Aunt Jean said, "I am. I've already sold her... to your Father."

"Why?" I asked.

"He didn't take care of it," she said. "The engine didn't get an oil change for I don't know how long, and it had to be repaired."

I looked at her.

"Busted a wrist-pin," she said, "and warped the cylinders. But she runs now." She handed me a set of keys. "Start her up," she said.

I opened the door, and discovered that the first thing I had to learn about this car was how to get into it. After some twisting and contorting, I had both feet on the pedals, and I was ready to go. To my astonishment, Aunt Jean walked around to the passenger side and slid gracefully into the seat. She looked over at me and grinned. "Let me show you how she works," she said.

"Uh..." I said - my well-known gift for witty repartee' coming to my rescue.

Fortunately, I could already drive a stick (my '39 Dodge truck had seen to that), but she showed me the starter button on the dash, and where the four forward gears were (I'd've started in second, or thought I was maxed in third), and how to find reverse. MGs came with a pattern on the plastic shifter knob, but someone had replaced this one with an oak knob with a metalwork MG emblem in it - no pattern. Then I put 'er in first, gave her a little gas and let out the clutch, and... "hic... blurt... splug..." she died without ever leaving the garage.

Aunt Jean laughed. "She likes a little rough treatment," she said. "More gas and faster clutch."

I tried again. The floor of the garage was gravel, and I heard it hit the back wall as we shot out into the driveway. Aunt Jean laughed again as I slammed the brake and clutch pedals to the floor. Carefully I put the little car in neutral and set the emergency brake. "Maybe not QUITE so rough, Charles," said my smart-aleck aunt. "I'll get out now, and you go around the block a few times."

And so I did. I discovered that the little shifter moved like butter, going from gear to gear in bare inches, with a little click when it trans locked in. The steering was so tight, it felt as if I were wishing her around corners.

When I decided I could actually drive her, I pulled back into Aunt Jean's drive, and got out to look her over. She was sleek and black, and polished to a high shine. Her wire-spoke, knockoff wheels (later to be a problem) were chromed and gleaming. There was an oddly shaped hole at the bottom of her grill, and a little investigation revealed its purpose... I found the crank in the trunk (a device I actually used, more than once).

The next day, I drove her to Greenwood Lake, New York, where my father and his eight brothers and sisters grew up, to visit my Grandmother and another of Dad's sisters. It was a bittersweet day, and I never went back.

The next morning early, I headed home to northeast Ohio. First I checked the oil, which showed full, but came out sludgy and black. "I told you he didn't take care of it," Aunt Jean grumped. On the way to the Jersey Pike, I stopped for an oil change, putting in 10W-30, the standard oil of the day.

I headed for home. It wasn't long before my first understanding of how different these little cars were came to me. On the Jersey Pike, I passed a semi. As I reached the tractor's rear wheels, I was suddenly fighting the wheel for my life. There was a bow-shock of air that nearly forced me under the trailer. I slammed the little car into third, pulled left toward the verge, and accelerated away from that deadly semi.

Sports cars, it seemed, behaved just a tad differently than full-sized sedans and pick-'em-up trucks, when encountering highway conditions. From then on, I swung wide and maintained a firm grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel as I passed any large vehicle.

Only one other adventure came my way on that long trip. Somewhere in the steepest mountains through which the Pennsylvania Turnpike runs, a station-wagon full of kids began to harass me. Pointing behind me and shouting, they nearly forced me off the road. The road was nothing but curves, and I was beginning to think that they were intent on forcing me down the side of the mountain.

As we rounded a curve, a service plaza came into view. I aimed for the entrance drive, and the station wagon swung in behind me. I slid to a halt as we got to the parking area, and scrambled out of the little car. The wagon pulled up, and the teens piled out. I dropped into a fighting stance, hoping someone would see and come bail me out.

"You've blown your engine," the lead boy said.

I straightened up. "What?" I asked, calling up my last reserves of conversational banter.

"We've been trying to stop you for the past five miles," he said.

"I could tell," I answered. "I thought you were trying to push me off the side of the mountain."

The boys looked at me. "What?' the driver said. "No, you've been trailing a big blue plume that nearly choked us to death."

I clambered back in the car and turned her over. Sure enough, a huge puff of blue smoke erupted from her tailpipe. I shut her down.

"We'd better push her," the driver said. I just nodded.

The service plaza had a garage attached to a Howard Johnson's restaurant. The mechanic listened to the story, and told me to start her up. As soon as I did, he told me to shut down.

As we all coughed our way out of the garage, he said, "Son, you have a problem. What did you do to this car?"

I told him the story. He laughed. "Your cousin probably put in oversized rings and knurled the pistons after he threw that rod," he said. "It's cheaper than rebuilding the engine. Then he put in non-detergent oil because it would gunk up and he wouldn't be burning oil all the time. When you changed the oil..."

"I cleaned the rings," I said.

He changed the oil, and filter, filling the sump with non-detergent oil, and sold me six cans and a spout to carry with me. Every 75 miles or so, I would pull over and add a quart of oil. After a while, the oil began to stay, and I finally made it home with two quarts to spare.

My folks came out to see it, and I proudly showed it off, giving them each a ride for a couple of miles. My father enjoyed it, but my mother LOVED it. After all, this was the girl who owned the '27 Indian motorcycle. I didn't tell them that night that my brand new used MG needed an overhaul - right NOW. That's another story.

What happened just *before?*

What happened What happened *first*?

© 2009 - All Rights Reserved R C Larlham