Me, My Father, and My MG

One late December afternoon, my friend and I were driving around rural Bedford County Pennsylvania. It was winter break from college and we were exploring. We were driving on roads I was vaguely familiar with since my summer job working with PennDOT. And this was a particularly out-of-the-way region of the county.

We passed under an old brick railroad overpass and emerged to find a nice little house situated there. Aside from it being an older home with a little porch out front and a garage out back, I don’t recall too many details about it. I do, however, remember the little car parked in the yard right next to the road.

Snow covered the faded orange MG Midget. The body had some rust, but was in good condition. The roof had a hole about 18 inches across where snow could cover the vinyl seats. The inspection sticker expired a year earlier and the useless rear window sported a University of Miami sticker.

It was love at first sight. “It needs me,” was my first thought. But I was just a poor college student.

A few months later, school was over for the year and I was working in a local quarry. My bank account sported a positive balance in the triple digits. And my mind returned to that house next to the railroad tracks in Everett. I had to find it.

I retraced my steps and found the MG just as before, but this time without the snow. The home owner told me the whole story of the car.

Mr Ritchey’s daughter had purchased this car and used it for a few years. She parked it in the yard and there it sat for years. A gentleman purchased the car for $400 but could not drive it away. Another failed attempt to take it left the car as an oversized lawn ornament in Mr Ritchey’s property. Until I arrived.

I was given the name and address of the car’s owner and I promptly contacted him. My letter, in my best legal-ese, stated the current state of affairs. This poor car had been left at Mr Ritchey’s house and was the responsibility of the new owner. Mr Ritchey, as I so eloquently wrote, could have the car removed at the new owner’s expense. And I felt that it was in his best interest to sell it to me for $250; a $150 loss to him.

My letter was mailed on Monday. On Friday of that week, the owner of the car called me. He had moved away from the address I was given and the US Postal Service had taken all of three days to find him. He accepted my offer with no conditions. We planned to meet the very next day.

All of this planning had been made without the knowledge of my parents. I was old enough to buy a car, but I didn’t think my parents would appreciate this project car darkening their doorstep.

Just as I was planning to make the roadtrip out to buy the car, I told my mother. Since I didn’t have a checking account, she took my $250 and wrote a check for the same amount. And, against her better judgement, she sent me on my way.

The following Tuesday, I had planned on having the car delivered to my friend’s house where I would work on it. That afternoon, my mother called me at work to request that I tell my father about the car.

Let me back up a step or two.

My father was a powerful man. He stood only about 5’10 but his rounded chest hid his 220-pound heft. He experienced many ups and downs to that point from plucking chickens for a living to his position as Captain of the State Police. I learned much from his past experiences and I tried to show my maturity by demonstrating that I’ve listened to (and heard) all of his stories and warnings. But my father was not a car person and only tolerated my love of all things automotive.

I called Dad. I explained that I had purchased a car and that I wanted to have it brought home. He immediately went into defensive position.

What did I pay for it? How could he complain about a $250 car that I had an MG expert look at?

Did I have a notary sign the proper documents? Yes…the seller and I found a notary and that’s where the money changed hands.

How was I getting the car moved there and how much did I pay for it? I hired a rollback truck to haul the car about 10 miles for $10 (this still astounds even me).

He had no more questions. He said, “bring it home.” And so I did.

I arrived just seconds before the car. My father walked out of the house with his stern look of disapproval. I had nothing but a shi---, er, crap-eating smile on my face.

The poor little car was off-loaded and parked in front of the house. And then my father took charge.

He moved the car to the backyard. We immediately put it up on cinderblocks and took off the tires. We surveyed the car to find out what our next steps should be.

We removed a wasp’s nest. We removed the old carpeting and seats. Replaced the battery and transmission. Replace a burned valve. Replaced the carpeting and various other old pieces.

We eventually got it running. Those moments working on or driving that car with my father will always stay with me. My father passed away a number of years ago but I still have that car.

The car still talks to me just like it did when I first saw it that December afternoon. It yells from its shed (which itself cost a few times more than all of the money I’ve put into the car) to take it out and drive it around. It’s currently on its third “restoration” since I’ve owned it. And I plan to drive it around in memory of my father. While it was my first car, it was his last.

If you see a faded orange MG puttering around with its driver smiling ear-to-ear, give me a thumb’s up!