My parents still live in the
house I grew up in. They own a two-acre, rectangular lot on the outskirts of a
rural community. When I was young we had a few horses, a pony, and about a
dozen chickens running around. Now, the old barn just houses mice, life-size
dust bunnies and cobwebs so thick, I swear they hold the building together as
much as the timber.
I haven’t lived at home for a
number of years so I haven’t set foot in the building for the better part of a
decade. Not that I cared, but my mother told me a neighbour rents out some of
the space to store his boats in the winter and his snowmobiles and ice fishing
hut during the summer.
One warm summer day, my wife
and kids and I were visiting and enjoying the yard. Naturally, my overly
curious two-year-old son soon found his way to the barn. However, while
retrieving him, I found something that piqued my interest.
Tucked away in a dark corner,
partially covered by a filthy tarp, I thought I saw what appeared to be the
headlight of a car. My own curiosity overwhelmed me. I ordered my son to stay
put and not touch anything while I went to confirm my theory. He didn’t, but I
was too distracted by my possible discovery to notice.
Reaching my destination, I
was able to confirm that indeed it was an automobile; or at least it was at one
time or other. Unable to contain my curiosity any further (yes, I’m aware where
my son gets it from), I started to peel back its dirty covering.
I had only partially unveiled
the front portion of the car before I began to recognize what it was. My heart
began racing. Here, before my eyes, tucked away in a dark corner of my parent’s
old barn, was an original Austin Mini.
I’ve adored these cars since
I was a child. I can still picture Mr. Bean driving his yellow Mini while
sitting in an over-stuffed armchair on the roof. That scene still makes me
smile. Also, my father grew up in England so I’m sure my fondness for the Mini
is in my blood.
With my excitement growing, I
threw back the tarp to reveal the rest of the front end. To be honest, it
wasn’t in good condition. I couldn’t tell what colour it used to be, but now it
was mostly dusty gray with darker rust patches. The hood was crooked and the
other headlamp was missing.
I gingerly lifted the hood to
discover an empty hole where the engine should have been. Nonetheless, my
excitement did not wane. I pushed on uncovering more of the beautiful artifact
I was fortunate enough to discover.
Walking along the driver side
of the car, I poked my head through the windowless door and into the barren
cabin. There was nothing to speak of except a cobweb covered steering wheel.
However, that was the single most exciting aspect of this discovery. Behind
where the driver seat should have been, was a metal wall.
This was very unusual. I
pushed the remaining tarp off the car and realized it was not a car at all. It
was a pickup truck!
I didn’t even know Austin
made a pickup version of their tiny people carrier. After some research, I
learned Austin did indeed make a Mini Pickup, but very few, and even fewer made
it to Canada.
And one can see why. When
compared to domestic pickup trucks, the shoebox of a truck bed looks comical. Add
in the tiny cabin and microscopic wheels and you’re looking at quite the odd
car. But I find it endearing.
Now my mind was off to the
races. How could the owner of this masterpiece leave it in such disrepair? If I
owned her, I would spend every moment I could spare fixing her up. When done, I
will drive her as much as possible. When I own her, she will be British Racing
Green with matching steel wheels and chrome hubcaps. The interior will be
restored back to original as much as possible with a few modern upgrades. The
original Austin engine won’t produce much power, but it will be great on gas.
I could already feel the wood
of the steering wheel under my fingertips when my wife stepped in. I don’t own
the truck. We don’t have money to buy it. And even if we did, fixing it up
would be quite a bit more.
I conceded; I knew the truth,
but I just couldn’t help myself. I realized that I hadn’t had such a strong
attraction to a car since my love affair with another rare car. I named her Old
Redder.
Old Redder was a 1991
Mitsubishi Galant VR4. She was an old rally car and very few were sold in
Canada. Being an older car she would break down from time to time. When I fixed
her, I always felt like I was strengthening our bond. I learned something new
about her every moment we were together. I also learned about myself too. She
instilled in me the confidence that I could handle any problem life throws at
me.
When I financially could not
continue the relationship anymore, I sold her to a dealer for pennies. To this
day, every time I think about that day I feel a deep sense of sadness.
But why?
It’s funny how human beings
can develop such strong emotional attachments to inanimate objects. We go so
far as to attribute genders to them, give them names and imagine these objects
having feelings. I love cars; others love clothes; some electronics. Whatever
one’s fix may be, just about everyone has some emotional attachment to
something that cannot return the love.
For me, I think part of the
reason I love cars is because the relationship is simple.
When something goes wrong, I know how to fix it.
With human relationships, I
don’t always know how to make things right; there’s never one right answer.
When I’m having problems in
my “real” relationships, I go to my car, like an old friend. We just go for a
drive. There’s no need to talk. There’s no guilt because I haven’t been around
enough or haven’t called. It doesn’t care how I look. Anytime of day, the car
doesn’t care.
The car does not judge me nor
tell me I’m the problem. It just lets me think and reach that conclusion on my
own, in my own time.
After spending some time
together, everything in life seems simpler. This time driving helps me make
sense of my life.
While a car may not love me
back, it lets me use it, anytime I need it, without expecting anything in
return. So, as long as this continues to hold true, I will continue to love my
cars without shame, even though I know, logically, it is completely irrational.
No comments:
Post a Comment