By Ken Edgar

   My Grandmother used to like to tell embarrassing stories about me to others.  One of these tales she liked to relate was my reaction to seeing a car crash on television when I was a little kid.  She said: “Kenny would always say ‘Oh, that car has gotta be fixed’”.  Wherever she is I wonder if she appreciates just how prophetic that story was.  Forty-odd years later I have enough projects to make the neighbors wonder if I’m starting a car lot and I’m still mending all things mechanical.  As anyone in the Club who knows me will attest I’m crazy enough to tackle almost anything, no matter how hopeless the object of my attention may appear.  After two more vehicles showed up at the house in as many years my wife had handed down the edict to me that I was forbidden to acquire any more projects.  This time I had to resign myself to the fact that my wife was right even though the sad, rusted, visages of old cars for sale online continued to beseech my mercy with the emotional manipulation worthy of a humanitarian charity.  However, it was not all my fault this time – I had help from a supposedly unlikely source.
   My stepdaughter Evyn is a seventeen year old girl who does not fit the mold. She is wise beyond her years, finds the science of disease fascinating and listens to music of another generation. She has told me repeatedly that she was born in the wrong decade (hint: she likes the Rat Pack).  She is why another stray showed up in the yard.
  Like most petrol heads I have a habit of browsing through the online car classifieds and auctions.  One afternoon I spotted a sit-up-and-beg Morris Minor two door for sale.  The car was several shades of primer and rust but it was cheap.
  “Hmmm, I wonder.” I said to myself as my wife walked into the room.
  She took one look at the screen.
  “No!” was all she said.
  “Aww, but look at its little face”, I protested.
  “No,” she retorted.  The conversation was over.
   A week passed by and I noted through my trolling the car did not sell.  One evening I was poking around in the internet – okay, I checked to see if the car was still offered for sale.  Evyn was sitting on the couch behind me and started asking questions about the car.
  “What does it look like?” She asked.
  I pulled up several pictures and showed her.
  “Dude! You ought to buy that. I’d drive it. I’ll help you fix it up!”
  My wife had just walked into the room when the conversation took place. I looked at her helplessly.  Evyn jumped in and made her pitch: she liked the car; a Mini was her first choice but the earlier brainchild of Alec Issigonis was the next best thing.  My wife caved and I wasn’t going to say no.  Evyn will need a driver of her own soon and I’m not parting with my Spit.  The E is out of the question.
   The owner was contacted and I went down to see the car, steeling myself to be as critical as possible.  The car looked pitiful but was basically all there.  The only worrying structural rust spots were the chassis legs and I knew I could replace those.  An offer was made and the owner accepted.  Evyn accompanied me to collect the car several days later.  The owner told us if we hadn’t bought the car she was going to send it to the crusher – that would have been a tragedy.  In closing she asked us to just pay scrap price for it for getting it out of her yard.  We triumphantly towed the pitiful thing home; I doubt we’d have received as many looks from other motorists if we’d been driving a prewar Rolls Royce Phantom V.
   Once home we commenced unstrapping the car from the trailer and I opened the hood.
   “I wonder…” I said to myself.
    I grabbed a battery and filled the carburetor float bowl with gasoline. I shorted out the starter connections (the starter switch was stuck) and the engine spun over. I checked the points – new, but dirty. After cleaning them I tried starting the car again. It fired up on the second try and settled into a relatively smooth tickover with no ominous ticks or knocks coming from the engine. My wife came out of the house at Evyn’s prompting.
   “It runs? Are you serious?” That was all she said.
   Once off the trailer I drove it around the yard. Steering: seems alright.  Clutch: good.  Gearbox: seems alright.  Brakes?  Oh, crap!  I can’t stop!  A quick spin of the wheel uphill bled off my momentum and I brought the car to a halt.  Well, three out of four ain’t bad.
   Repair of the rust has commenced and Evyn and I will labor to bring the Morris back to fitness. At present the body shell sans drive train, wings, doors, bonnet, and boot lid is lying on its side in my workshop with the rest of the car crammed in the basement. The left side chassis leg has been fitted and the floor pans are coming along nicely.
   My wife just shakes her head at my demented desire to get into these projects and slog away at it.  However, she believes me when I tell her we were meant to save this car - I’ve always told her to trust my judgment when it comes to cars.