Slainte
Donation Time
I need to end April with a confession: A few of the elements of my calendar photo may have been … adjusted a little, and I may have relaxed a fact or two in my April 1st story. Before my moment in the spotlight is over, I’d like to set things straight:
As of Saturday, February 5th, 2022, my raggedy ’67 Alpine and I will have spent fifty years trying not to kill each other. My parents - some of the best - saw high school graduation as a chance to provide their geeky son some street cred. Good money after bad, I’m afraid. The car’s first owner had purchased it for his wife as a Valentine’s Day gift, and it had almost no miles on it. The soft top had been up once, and the tonneau was still sealed in its original bag. Not bad for $750. The day after I got my hands on it, a couple of local cops complimented me on how well I’d maintained the car. I took the compliment, but dodged the citation.
I did the things we’ve all done, but wished we hadn’t, yet secretly smiled about later. I raced. I packed in six friends and ditched class for a quick trip to McDonald’s. I hit deer. I made questionable mechanical decisions. I came to know the local police by name. (Pulled over twenty-seven times before my first ticket, and that was in a VW.) I treated the car like a Jeep, and it responded by not stranding me for my stupidity. My dad and I drove it from southern California to Vancouver, BC, arriving in Everett, Washington with a piece of firewood wedged between the alternator and the block because the bracket had broken. Again. The car introduced me to a few sketchy friends, and it made me appear interesting enough to catch the attention of my criminally amazing wife-to-be. Turns out, it’s way more fun getting into trouble with a hot brunette sitting next to you. Anyway, I used the Alpine with abandon, and when the Unpayable Bill finally arrived, I covered the car, gave it a pat, and moved on.
The Alpine dozed in a series of garages as we finished college, started teaching, had kids, and moved to the mountains of northern California. Somewhere along the way, I ran into Jose Rodriguez - V6_Jose to most of this community. Together, we nuanced the Alpine, which resulted in, by my standards, a mildly terrifying little car. (It should be noted that “together” means I found the parts, and Jose did all the work.) I am not a mechanic. I teach English, so I am humble when discussing cars, but I choose my words carefully. The Alpine is bitchin’. Just … bitchin’.
Today, I live at the foot of a volcano, and my next door neighbor is a national park. Every road within a hundred miles was made for this car. It’s the perfect vehicle, in the perfect place, at the (almost) perfect time. The Alpine is written into every chapter of my life. But I imagine many of you understand. Thanks for reading.
As of Saturday, February 5th, 2022, my raggedy ’67 Alpine and I will have spent fifty years trying not to kill each other. My parents - some of the best - saw high school graduation as a chance to provide their geeky son some street cred. Good money after bad, I’m afraid. The car’s first owner had purchased it for his wife as a Valentine’s Day gift, and it had almost no miles on it. The soft top had been up once, and the tonneau was still sealed in its original bag. Not bad for $750. The day after I got my hands on it, a couple of local cops complimented me on how well I’d maintained the car. I took the compliment, but dodged the citation.
I did the things we’ve all done, but wished we hadn’t, yet secretly smiled about later. I raced. I packed in six friends and ditched class for a quick trip to McDonald’s. I hit deer. I made questionable mechanical decisions. I came to know the local police by name. (Pulled over twenty-seven times before my first ticket, and that was in a VW.) I treated the car like a Jeep, and it responded by not stranding me for my stupidity. My dad and I drove it from southern California to Vancouver, BC, arriving in Everett, Washington with a piece of firewood wedged between the alternator and the block because the bracket had broken. Again. The car introduced me to a few sketchy friends, and it made me appear interesting enough to catch the attention of my criminally amazing wife-to-be. Turns out, it’s way more fun getting into trouble with a hot brunette sitting next to you. Anyway, I used the Alpine with abandon, and when the Unpayable Bill finally arrived, I covered the car, gave it a pat, and moved on.
The Alpine dozed in a series of garages as we finished college, started teaching, had kids, and moved to the mountains of northern California. Somewhere along the way, I ran into Jose Rodriguez - V6_Jose to most of this community. Together, we nuanced the Alpine, which resulted in, by my standards, a mildly terrifying little car. (It should be noted that “together” means I found the parts, and Jose did all the work.) I am not a mechanic. I teach English, so I am humble when discussing cars, but I choose my words carefully. The Alpine is bitchin’. Just … bitchin’.
Today, I live at the foot of a volcano, and my next door neighbor is a national park. Every road within a hundred miles was made for this car. It’s the perfect vehicle, in the perfect place, at the (almost) perfect time. The Alpine is written into every chapter of my life. But I imagine many of you understand. Thanks for reading.
