A storage bay full of boxes resting both about and inside a dusty project car identified this collection officially as garage furniture. I needed to buy it to perform a rescue.
A return trip with money and my sainted wife was as expected. Her first words upon seeing this treasure were in the form of a threat of divorce if I acquired it.
This project took just over an anxious year to complete, but just as with any project, there is no real completion date; there always seems to be something else to add, tweak, improve, or replace.
It wasn’t soon enough to drive my project car to the store to get a few more final details. I invited my sainted wife to ride along, and she agreed.
The wind reached around the top and sides of the windshield and mussed her coif violently. Her sunglasses hid the smile in her eyes; a stoic occasional glance was returned by a wide grin from me.
She waited in the convertible, fruitlessly trying to fix her hair while I attended to business inside.
After a few successful minutes, I emerged to find a bevy of people with cell phones snapping shots of my wife in the car. She was posed with a hand raised as if she were riding in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
My presence seemed to put a damper on things, although I did receive a few thumbs-up and a throng of smiles.
Exiting the parking lot I noticed her face suddenly showed a bit of delight, and the ride in an 84 year-old vehicle appeared to be good medicine for the masses.
Unfortunately, my sainted wife never keeps her word. We are still married.