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Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Memories with a Mustang

On April 22, 1966, my grandfather, Harold Shaw, walked into the showroom of Hub Motor City Sales in Atlanta, and drove out in a brand new, candy apple red 1966 Ford Mustang. Big Hal (as we called him) was an incredibly smart man, but I doubt even he could fathom the future of his $2,781.50 purchase nor the memories it would create.

I wasn't born until 1980, and by then the Mustang had already created many memories for my dad, aunt, and uncles. It had, to name a few, gone to my hometown of Tallahassee while my father went to college at Florida State, and then off to the University of Georgia with my Uncle Hal during his college days. They each have their own novel's worth of stories to tell about the car... the dents on the top of the gas tank in the trunk from too many beer kegs being tossed back there... the random bullet hole between the engine block and the driver's compartment that no one seems to know anything about, or at least, won't talk about. But those are stories for them to tell, not me. So I will tell you mine.

Sadly, most of my memories of the Mustang consist of it sitting in my grandfather's garage. It seemed as though it was mistaken for a shelf of sorts, as there would always be boxes on the roof or trunk, and clay pots as well. The condition of the car at this point was greatly deteriorated. The candy apple red paint was now faded and slowly chipping away. The drivers seat had a rather large tear, and the dash had cracked right in the middle and peeled back, exposing the hard yellowish-orange foam at its core. This was the Mustang for the first 20 years of my life.

Every once in a while, Big Hal would bring it out into the sunlight and crank her up. I remember one time, he asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I may have only been 10 or so, but there was no way I was turning that opportunity down. We went for a ride lasting close to thirty minutes, and during that time, not a word was spoken between us. I remember quite vividly, the sound of the motor as we pulled out of the driveway onto Holt Road, and Big Hal gave it just enough gas to gain some speed going up the hill. He wasn't out to show off, he was just letting the Mustang stretch her legs a bit. So we went, with windows down, and the radio off. I could hear the throaty rumble of the V8 slowly getting louder right before he shifted into second gear, and then again into third. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and the constant wind on my face was refreshing. At some point I turned my head from watching the world go by, to watching him drive. At only ten, I had never driven a manual transmission before, and I was kind of entranced by the dance my grandfather's boots were doing on the pedals. Before I knew it, we were pulling back up the driveway, and back into the garage. I remember being a bit sad that it was over. Why didn't he drive it more? Why didn't he get it repainted? It was a beautiful car, even in its condition, so why didn't he show it off? These were questions I never got to ask.

Big Hall passed away in 1999. By then, the Mustang had been sitting untouched for years. The family was all gathered up to settle the estate and clean out the house. I was 19, living with my parents and had no use for furniture, china, or office supplies, so I did the one thing I wasn't allowed to do before. I opened up the garage, and pushed the Mustang into the sunlight. I found the keys on the hook in the kitchen, and tried to crank her up. To the surprise of nobody... it didn't. I opened the hood and proceeded to try. I was told by my dad and uncles not to worry with it, as they were going to just sell it to a junkyard for parts. My thought was, great... so I can't mess anything up! I did everything I knew how to do, like check the oil level, and clean the spark plugs... and then I did things I didn't know how to do... like clean the fuel line, and de-gunk the carburetor. Within a few hours of trying everything I could think of, I tried to crank her again. She turned over. It was only 3 or 4 times, and it didn't catch, but it was enough to get everyone's attention. As the giant cloud of exhaust smoke cleared, my family started coming outside to see what was going on. I got it to turn over a few more times just to show that it did happen. Then I started hearing "keep it up" and "awesome", and other encouraging statements. For the rest of that day, and the next, the Mustang was my focus. I got it running well enough to drive it around the school parking lot across the street, which was good because if it broke down, I didn't have far to walk. I was trying to get as much of the old gasoline out as I could, so I would drive around in circles. At one point, while my younger brother was in the passenger seat, one of the hubcaps came off. And it rolled. And rolled. It hit a mound of dirt and was launched into the air about 10 or 15 feet. So I had to stop the car and fetch the runaway hubcap. For some reason this story always comes up when we talk about the car. It's nothing special, aside from the fact it made us laugh. Just another memory in the Mustang's arsenal.

Over the following few months, I would drive from Columbia, South Carolina to Atlanta, just so I could tinker with the car some more. I'm no mechanic, so I couldn't do much, but I gave her new spark plugs and plug wires, distributor and cap, as well as a much needed oil change and new oil filter. I also filled her tank with 93 octane premium gas... at $1.50 per gallon (ahh, the good ol' days). I had a connection to the Mustang, but since it was still undecided what the family would be doing with the car, I didn't drive it much. It was around this time that I learned my uncle Hal had a renewed interest in his old college car, so that is who would be getting it.

I was torn. On one hand, the car that I brought back to life would belong to someone else. And on the other hand, I was happy it was spared from the scrapyard. Since it now had an official owner, I pushed it back into the garage, and left it alone.

It was a few years later before I saw her again. Uncle Hal seemed especially excited to show me what all had been done.
It was beautiful. There were no other words to describe it. Never in a million years could I imagine how incredible the Mustang turned out. The candy apple red paint was bright and shiny. The interior was immaculate. And that sound... the throaty rumble... it was still there. I couldn't help but smile. I was genuinely happy. When I, ever so carefully, slid into the drivers seat, I noticed a smell. The smell had always been there, but I never paid it much attention or even knew what it was. It was a very faint combination of gas exhaust, grease, tools, and sweat. I knew that scent. It was the smell of Big Hal's garage. Everything in the car had been redone, but the 'Eau de Garage' remained. That is a big part of why it's special.
This past Sunday, I got to drive her again. The paint was still bright and shiny. The interior was still perfect. The throaty rumble spoke to me again, and the Big Hal smell... well it was there too. The way it should be.

It has been 13 years since I first pushed the Mustang out of the garage, and I've had some time to reflect. I may have brought an old car back from the dead, but my Uncle Hal gave it life. Looking back, I wouldn't have it any other way. The Mustang is the way it should be. Fully restored. A crown jewel in our family, with more memories embedded deep within her frame than anyone can count.
I can't wait to see her again.

2 comments:

  1. That was a beautiful story. I’m sure Big Hal appreciates what you did for his old Mustang. You spared his beloved vehicle from being torn apart in a junkyard. I perfectly understand your feelings. If I’m in the same situation, I will do what you did – not give up on the thing that reminds me of someone close to me. And you made the right decision. Now the Mustang is fully restored, and ready to roll again on the streets!

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