Rational decisions sometimes can’t be made during irrational times. Especially when it involves men and women who truly love the machines that take us through life, or in many cases, BACK in life.
This isn’t like we haven’t met before; by now it’s a weekly event (celebration), of how I can haunt you or taunt you into thinking that as I mellow I can become more sensible and status quo. Mowing the lawn during daylight hours and no precipitation, not changing smoke detector batteries or light bulbs during a lightning storm, and not expecting special coupons for fuel oil or a routine surgery in the mail. Damn.
So the last thing anyone, car enthusiast or not, should be doing is looking for new (old) modes and models of transportation via Craigslist. This online, universal seller/buyer marketplace really tests your monetary mettle. Don’t hit the “search” button with a description of what (and sometimes who) you want because, in all likelihood, you will eventually find it.
And that’s when the trouble starts.
In May of 2016, two years ago already, there I am, lying in a Geisinger hospital bed ready to be cut open at the seams. I had no visitors, no appetite, and at times, no hope. I desperately needed a fun challenge to uptake.
Working on a make-believe minuscule budget, I decided to scour C-list for a cool, rare car when I wasn’t being poked, probed, tested or doing exercise. This was better than watching TV, worse than flattering the nurses. I had nothing to lose but time. Or so I thought.
In a matter of two days, I hit the yellow “reply” square for a car a woman was selling in New Hampshire. Cheap. Her description and pictures were nice and tidy, and since curiosity (it killed the cat) got the best of me, I called her.
She was selling her convertible (I just lit the fuse) to raise funds for her daughter’s college tuition. The vehicle was in her direct family for 23 years. First owner was a dealership owner’s wife. This correspondence went on for days and nights — hospital staff thought I was having an affair, but the only mistress here was draped in blue metallic.
The irrational behavior here was motivation driven. If I could find a purpose, a reason, a thing, anything to strive for besides family and friends, it would be to my advantage. It was bringing some joy to a rather grim situation. The stay in the hospital was going on two weeks. It felt much longer.
And if I bought it and died? No problem. This could be a big casket. And instead of being picked apart in a scrap yard, it could go “underground.” A viewing? Put the top down and “look” at me in the reclining bucket seat! Am I smiling?
Honestly, I thought if I could fix this car to former glory (as I did with some others) it could forge new paths. Take my parents to dinner in it, let my nephew use it for cruise-ins or dates. In the meantime, searching for parts and researching its history would be rewarding during a low point in my life.
No one knew about this impending purchase. The last thing I wanted was people to think I was “losing” financial responsibility or sensibility. That, my friends, occurred long ago. In my mind, I was not only “gaining,” but keeping sanity at the same time! You dig? Of course, you do. Hey, we all like bargains.
But as most automotive zealots with “projects” will tell you, the best intentions don’t always go as planned. Or should I say — scheduled? After release from the hospital, in late May 2016, the car was shipped to me. Then, due to conflicts and obligations, the poor thing sat like a bump on a log. Waiting, waiting, waiting — for any work to be done on it. Stray cats took refuge under it, rabbits hopped around it, birds hovered above it.
Oh, I kept dreaming now that it was in my possession. I’d take the covers off it and wash it, and think what flavor ice cream my niece would order if I took her to get some. To travel to a Carlisle car show in it. To play some favorite cassettes in the tape deck on a warm night on a country road.
Some dreams got squashed. My mother passed away before getting a promised ride in it. She was the first person to see it. “So when did you get this one, I have never seen it,” she said one afternoon at my place. “A task that needs completed,” I replied. Her ride can’t happen, but my father and his prized Turkish Van cat can go. Just hold the cat tight. And remember, the factory installed hoop, the “roll bar” is for structural rigidity, not occupant safety. The owner’s manual says so.
That’s because (drum roll please) I just finished it. I mean a few others did. Mike Pennington took out the dents, Greg Snell and his spotless body shop removed scratches and did nice paintwork. Nick, my mechanic, put new brake and fuel lines on the car and treated it to all new fluids. The 3.4-liter twin cam, 200 HP motor, purrs like a kitten. The leather seats are still supple, the power top is begging to be put down, and the Goodyear tires are ready to roll.
It’s a unique ride, and in medium quasar blue, stands out. One of 6,626 1993 Olds Cutlass Supreme convertibles made that year. One of 237 in my color combination of blue body, graphite interior, and black top.
Two years till completed, and I lived to see the fruition take place! It really helped my recovery process. It not only took the “blues” away but also put me behind the wheel of something blue when it passes you! This relic (they stopped making Oldsmobiles years ago) is now 25 years old. Consumer Guide deemed it “sporty and pleasant.”
Ironically, my brother has a 1994 Olds Cutlass Supreme convertible, but in bright red with a white top and the big motor like mine. Mother never got to ride in his either. Another project car that needs work and TLC. Luckily, he didn’t buy his in the confines of a hospital bed.
Car people know that TLC stands for “tender, loving, care.” NOT “totally lost conception.” Mom, I am sorry you didn’t get a ride in it, but we’ll wave to you above. Happy May motoring!
Here’s Something Out of the Blue
Rational decisions sometimes can’t be made during irrational times. Especially when it involves men and women who truly love the machines that take us through life, or in many cases, BACK in life.
This isn’t like we haven’t met before; by now it’s a weekly event (celebration), of how I can haunt you or taunt you into thinking that as I mellow I can become more sensible and status quo. Mowing the lawn during daylight hours and no precipitation, not changing smoke detector batteries or light bulbs during a lightning storm, and not expecting special coupons for fuel oil or a routine surgery in the mail. Damn.
So the last thing anyone, car enthusiast or not, should be doing is looking for new (old) modes and models of transportation via Craigslist. This online, universal seller/buyer marketplace really tests your monetary mettle. Don’t hit the “search” button with a description of what (and sometimes who) you want because, in all likelihood, you will eventually find it.
And that’s when the trouble starts.
In May of 2016, two years ago already, there I am, lying in a Geisinger hospital bed ready to be cut open at the seams. I had no visitors, no appetite, and at times, no hope. I desperately needed a fun challenge to uptake.
Working on a make-believe minuscule budget, I decided to scour C-list for a cool, rare car when I wasn’t being poked, probed, tested or doing exercise. This was better than watching TV, worse than flattering the nurses. I had nothing to lose but time. Or so I thought.
In a matter of two days, I hit the yellow “reply” square for a car a woman was selling in New Hampshire. Cheap. Her description and pictures were nice and tidy, and since curiosity (it killed the cat) got the best of me, I called her.
She was selling her convertible (I just lit the fuse) to raise funds for her daughter’s college tuition. The vehicle was in her direct family for 23 years. First owner was a dealership owner’s wife. This correspondence went on for days and nights — hospital staff thought I was having an affair, but the only mistress here was draped in blue metallic.
The irrational behavior here was motivation driven. If I could find a purpose, a reason, a thing, anything to strive for besides family and friends, it would be to my advantage. It was bringing some joy to a rather grim situation. The stay in the hospital was going on two weeks. It felt much longer.
And if I bought it and died? No problem. This could be a big casket. And instead of being picked apart in a scrap yard, it could go “underground.” A viewing? Put the top down and “look” at me in the reclining bucket seat! Am I smiling?
Honestly, I thought if I could fix this car to former glory (as I did with some others) it could forge new paths. Take my parents to dinner in it, let my nephew use it for cruise-ins or dates. In the meantime, searching for parts and researching its history would be rewarding during a low point in my life.
No one knew about this impending purchase. The last thing I wanted was people to think I was “losing” financial responsibility or sensibility. That, my friends, occurred long ago. In my mind, I was not only “gaining,” but keeping sanity at the same time! You dig? Of course, you do. Hey, we all like bargains.
But as most automotive zealots with “projects” will tell you, the best intentions don’t always go as planned. Or should I say — scheduled? After release from the hospital, in late May 2016, the car was shipped to me. Then, due to conflicts and obligations, the poor thing sat like a bump on a log. Waiting, waiting, waiting — for any work to be done on it. Stray cats took refuge under it, rabbits hopped around it, birds hovered above it.
Oh, I kept dreaming now that it was in my possession. I’d take the covers off it and wash it, and think what flavor ice cream my niece would order if I took her to get some. To travel to a Carlisle car show in it. To play some favorite cassettes in the tape deck on a warm night on a country road.
Some dreams got squashed. My mother passed away before getting a promised ride in it. She was the first person to see it. “So when did you get this one, I have never seen it,” she said one afternoon at my place. “A task that needs completed,” I replied. Her ride can’t happen, but my father and his prized Turkish Van cat can go. Just hold the cat tight. And remember, the factory installed hoop, the “roll bar” is for structural rigidity, not occupant safety. The owner’s manual says so.
That’s because (drum roll please) I just finished it. I mean a few others did. Mike Pennington took out the dents, Greg Snell and his spotless body shop removed scratches and did nice paintwork. Nick, my mechanic, put new brake and fuel lines on the car and treated it to all new fluids. The 3.4-liter twin cam, 200 HP motor, purrs like a kitten. The leather seats are still supple, the power top is begging to be put down, and the Goodyear tires are ready to roll.
It’s a unique ride, and in medium quasar blue, stands out. One of 6,626 1993 Olds Cutlass Supreme convertibles made that year. One of 237 in my color combination of blue body, graphite interior, and black top.
Two years till completed, and I lived to see the fruition take place! It really helped my recovery process. It not only took the “blues” away but also put me behind the wheel of something blue when it passes you! This relic (they stopped making Oldsmobiles years ago) is now 25 years old. Consumer Guide deemed it “sporty and pleasant.”
Ironically, my brother has a 1994 Olds Cutlass Supreme convertible, but in bright red with a white top and the big motor like mine. Mother never got to ride in his either. Another project car that needs work and TLC. Luckily, he didn’t buy his in the confines of a hospital bed.
Car people know that TLC stands for “tender, loving, care.” NOT “totally lost conception.” Mom, I am sorry you didn’t get a ride in it, but we’ll wave to you above. Happy May motoring!
Gerry Ayers
AUTHOR
PROFILE