A girl and her Pony - a love story (reprisal).

A memorable gift.

I wrote this post over two years ago, but it remains to date the most memorable gift I have ever been on either the giving or the receiving end of.  I thought about retelling the story, but I don't think I could do it the same justice now as I did when I was still in shock from receiving it.  If you're a long time reader of my blog, feel free to move on along since I'm sure you've heard this story a couple dozen times, but otherwise, read on to find about the most amazing gift I have ever received.

Once upon a time there was a Girl:

And that Girl loved a car:

The Girl loved the car when she was 8 years old.

She loved it when she was 10 years old.

When she was 12 years old, the Girl asked for the car for her birthday.

Instead, she got $20, a homemade cake, and a sleepover with 3 of her closest friend.

When she was 16, the Girl asked for the car again for her birthday.

Instead, she go this:

And the Girl was happy.

And the Girl loved that car, too, and drove it and drove it and drove it for thousands and thousands of miles, until one day, on a road that was slippery with rain, the Girl and the car flipped over and over and the car was no more.

But that was ok, mostly, because the Girl walked away unhurt from something that could have and probably should have killed her.

She always thought the car saved her that day.

Later, the Girl got a truck (she was a country girl, after all), and went away to college, where she met a Boy.

The Boy and the Girl fell in love and got married, and even though the Boy didn't share the Girl's love for her special car, he knew all about it.  Probably because the Girl talked about it all the time.

After the Girl and the Boy were established in their chosen professions, married, young, and somewhat stupid, the Boy got the Girl this:

And the Girl was happy.

And the Girl drove it and drove it and drove it until the Boy and the Girl had a baby, and then another, and the car was not practical for a family.  And the Girl was ALWAYS practical.

So the Girl sold the car, and she was sad, but she was busy with other things, like raising the babies and writing and cooking and cleaning and laughing and living.

Sometimes the Boy and the Girl would play the "What If" game, and the Boy always asked the Girl the same question:

"What if you could have any car you wanted?  What would it be?"

And the Girl would always answer, 

"Why this one:

of course."

And then the Girl and the Boy would laugh and smile and dream and go on with their lives.

Until one day, when the Girl was in the middle of raising the babies and writing and cooking and cleaning and laughing and living, she opened an envelope that came in the mail, and saw that the Boy had done something.

She sent him a text.

"Ummm... did you buy a car?"

The Boy answered:

"Why would you ask something like that?"

Which clearly wasn't a "NO" and meant only one thing.

And the Girl, the Girl who always wanted to control everything and know everything, didn't ask "How much?" or  "Can we afford it?" or "Is it practical?" or "How much will insurance cost?" or any of the million and two other PRACTICAL questions in her head.  Instead, she asked the Boy:

"Why?"

And the Boy answered:

"Because you deserve it and I wanted you to have it."

 And the Girl, the Girl who clips coupons and shops at yard sales and dyes her own hair and scrimps and saves and is altogether cheap and PRACTICAL, said:

"It's beautiful."

and

"I love it."

and 

"Thank you."

And the Girl was happy.

Very, very happy.

What might have been.

R and I took the boys to a local festival/carnival deal the other night, and on a complete lark, we decided to drive Hugh.  We don't do this nearly enough, because the truth is he's just not practical to drive when you're lugging around car seats and children and all that entails.

But we worked it out, and the result?  Totally worth it.

The weather was beautiful, the top was down, the radio - an actual radio, complete with stations that come and go and scratchy sounding speakers and a tuner that only seems to pick up country or oldies  - was blaring, Hugh was shiny and red, and it was a lighthearted ride that put all four of us in a great mood AT THE SAME TIME, which is so rare it is nearly inconceivable.

Making repairs.

Hugh, looking all shiny and happy from his bath.  

God, I love this car more than I should be allowed to. 

When Hugh came into my life in the fall of 2011, R and I had BIG plans for him.  He was already 80-90% restored, but since we both love working with our hands and we are both reasonably bright, intelligent, capable people, we were going to do all the work left to be done ourselves.

Our intentions were good.

We did a couple little cosmetic things, then replaced the radio.  We ordered copies of all the service and repair manuals, then... Well, then... Nothing.

Life kept happening and Hugh got pushed to the back burner for a while.  Quite a long while, actually.

I would occasionally drive him out of the garage and maybe around the neighborhood a few times, but that was really all.

Late last fall, I drove him out of the garage and he immediately began spewing bright red liquid all on the ground.

"OH MY GOD HUGH'S BEEN SHOT!  HE'S BLEEDING!  QUICK!  CALL 911!" I screamed, before realizing it was futile.  No one was close enough to hear me.  I was going to have to perform a lifesaving thoracotomy myself.  I've seen every episode of ER.  I could totally do it.

Oh wait.  Hugh is a car.

Well then, what the hell is this red stuff?

A little research combined with a couple texts to R led me to believe I had blown out the power steering pump.

So there he sat, parked.

And then it was Thanksgiving.

And then it was Christmas.

And then it was still winter, and I don't drive him in the winter anyway, so it was fine.

But then it was spring, and I started itching to take him out for a run.

So I began incessantly nagging and pestering asking R about it.  "So this thing that's wrong with Hugh.  Can we fix it ourselves, do you think?"  And he would agree that we probably could, and finally we set out to do just that.  However, neither of us has ANY experience in working on cars and what that might entail.

Oops?

R gamely crawled under Hugh to see what the exact situation was, and determined that there was a hose that was busted.

A hose!  Just a hose!  We could TOTALLY replace a HOSE!  They're just all round and hose-y and totally easy to replace, right? RIGHT?

So R ordered a replacement hose and left work early one day for the specific purpose of working on Hugh.

The first thing we needed to do was to get him up on ramps.  Since he wasn't really DRIVABLE, we decided to push, where push equals R was steering and I was pushing.

*cue circus music*

No bloggers, bloggers' spouses, or classic 1966 Mustang Convertibles were harmed during this incident.  Not permanently, anyway. 

Finally we decided that maybe we could drive him just long enough to get him up on the ramps, which, by the way? Totally not as easy as it sounds.

The next step involved removing the old hose and replacing it with the new one.  After three rounds of rock, paper, scissors in which I'm SURE he cheated some negotiations, it was determined that R would get under the car and I would be in charge of handing him the appropriate tools.

"Ok," he said, after he had situated himself under the car.  "I need a wrench."

"What size?" I asked.

"Uh, like this."  He handed me the end of the new hose, and I attempted to find a suitable wrench out of our pile of wrenches.  For people who don't really work on our own cars, we have a shit-ton of wrenches.

Half an hour later, I yelled "I FOUND IT!" which woke R up and made him hit his head on the underside of the car.

At this point, one might think that the changeout would proceed smoothly, but, alas, it was not to be.

The old hose, which had probably been on the car since the Nixon era, would not budge.

So it became a parade of tools passing through my hands into R's in an attempt to remove it.

"BRING ME A PIPE WRENCH!" he would yell from under the car, and I would furtively Google "pipe wrench images" on my phone and attempt to match them up with what we have in our tool arsenal.

"You ok?" he would yell when it had been more than 15 minutes or so between tool pass-offs, and I would mumble something vague about "the metric stuff is all in my way" in an attempt to sound reasonably versed in Tools You Need To Pry Off A Rusty Hose 101, then I would hand him a screwdriver, or a mallet, or something else in an attempt to distract him from what he was really waiting for me to find.

Finally, a combination of the mallet (TOTAL WIN FOR ME) and some other wrenchy-pinchy thing did the deed, and the rest was easy, relatively speaking.

So now Hugh is road-worthy once again, and he and I have been out for more than a couple quick trips around the block, but I'm dreaming of a long ride down the road, top down, Willie blaring on the radio, sunglasses on and scarf flapping in the wind, just me and my man.

Oh, and R, too, of course.  If he wants to come along.

Happy 80th Birthday, Willie!

Today is my man Willie Nelson's 80th birthday.

Seriously?  If I am lucky enough to live to be 80, I'd be thrilled to be able to do half the things he does now.

He still plays over a hundred shows a year.  He releases at least one, and usually more studio albums every year.  He has his own biodiesel company.  He is an activist for green living, the environment, and  *cough*marijuana*cough*.  He is a staunch supporter of farmers and American farming.  He founded Farm Aid.  That hits me close to home.

He is one of the most prolific American songwriters of our time or any other, having written such classics as Crazy, Ain't It Funny How Time Slips Away, Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground, Family Bible, Hello Walls, On The Road Again, Pretty Paper, Yesterday's Wine, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain, Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys, and Good Hearted Woman, just to name a few.

By age seven, Willie Hugh Nelson (I named my mustang after him, by the way) had already figured out what he loved to do, and he has been doing it every day of his life since then.

If that isn't the definition of success, I'm not sure what is.

Willie is a singer, a songwriter, an activist, and an icon.

He's the very definition of old-school, while still managing to keep up with and even exceed the times with his attention to and focus on green living and the environment.

He's my absolute favorite singer/songwriter of all time.

In honor of his 80th birthday today, I'm going to share with you some of my favorite Wille songs and performances.

Some are old, some are new, but they are all my Willie.

Happy Birthday, old man.  Here's to many more.

Welcome to The Garage

So there's a new link in my menu bar called The Garage.

If you already noticed, you know that it's an awesome new blog about my '66 Mustang.

If you haven't noticed, you clearly haven't been spending enough time reading every single little word I've ever written, and I'd kinda like to know why not.

Ahem.

Anyway, give it a look and let me know what you think.  If you haven't already, make sure you read the How They Met link at the top.

It's an awesome story about an awesome car and an awesome husband who makes dreams come true.