Gentle Memories

Three mornings in the past week have been filled with snippets of memories from a half century ago.  Memories are triggered by sights or sounds; sometimes one rises up to consciousness on the escalator of smells.  Last week all three were in play as the coincidence of timing tugged open a memory box from teenage times.
 

Approaching the stoplight on my normal route to the office, the morning was unfolding just like hundreds of others have done before.  I drive a Mini Cooper – like “jumbo shrimp” my Mini is a bit of an oxymoron because it is the Countryman, the largest of the Mini Cooper breed.  There at the stoplight sitting at idle was a vintage MG Midget – British racing green with a demountable hard top that had probably been installed for the winter.  It was half the size of my Mini.

The driver’s window was down and he rested his arm on the door exactly the way I used to do in my first MG.  I pulled to a stop directly behind the Midget and even if I could have been driving with my eyes closed, I’d have known there was an MG close by from the fragrance of that odd mixture of unburned gasoline that escapes through the tail pipe of every MG.

My first MG was a 1952 TD model.  With its upswept fenders and a windscreen that folded flat, this was the car idolized by the soldiers who had been stationed in England.  The soft top and side curtains were nearly useless accessories because the wind, rain, cold or heat, or snow found its way to the interior regardless of the top being up or down.  She was a beautiful and independent girl.  It was a rare outing when we wouldn’t have to stop to make some adjustment or repair in order to have a fair chance of returning home.  Along with an assortment of odd tools, a well-stocked picnic basket was among the most essential accessory.

My reverie about MG adventures really took flight when the light turned green.  The distinctive low rumble as it accelerated is unique to MGs among vintage sports cars.  It turned.  I went straight to work as the memory floated away in the normal daily awakening to the duties of the day.

The next day, it happened again, the very same way.  I crested the hill in what seemed to be my giant Mini and there was the little MG waiting patiently at the same stoplight.  British racing green is made with lots of black and usually seems intentionally dull.  On this day she glistened as the springtime sun bounced off her roof and up (yes up) to the windshield of my Mini.  She turned and I went straight and began to reminisce about the MG Bs that had I owned after that first MG TD had to be sold – raising a family took precedence.

An MG B was very modern compared to the post war models.  It had more power and some useful features like roll up windows that could hold the rain out when the top was up.  However, being low to the ground and rear-wheel drive eliminated its usefulness for three or four months each year.  The heater worked (heaters always worked) but they worked to the same extent in mid-summer as they did on the coldest day.  With improved reliability of the modern B, some of the adventure of making a trip to the grocery store was eliminated.  In most cases the round trip was made without a breakdown or needing a repair.

On the third morning I was expecting the same serendipity.  Nothing.  The little Midget was not where I’d come to expect our brief morning rendezvous.  Disappointing, but I should have known that this coincidental affair could not last.  Even without the sights and smells of an old MG my mind wandered to my last one.  Here she is.  A 1953 MG TD in autumn red, an original but very rare color because most of the ones produced stayed home in England and had their steering wheels on the right side of the car.

This one closed the circle.  Well into my seventh decade, I returned to the car that I had idolized in my teens.  The joys were the same.  We couldn’t travel more than a few miles without a repair; the heater was particularly efficient in August; the budget to keep it running was exceeded before the ledger was closed; the rumble of the exhaust notes sang a familiar tune; its scent encircled the driver on the road, beside the road or in the garage; the autumn red paint could still show its luster with a little paste wax and elbow grease; and getting caught in a gentle rain meant stripping my soaked jeans when we made it home. 

The next morning was Friday.  I was back into my routine.  Once again the Midget sat waiting at our stoplight.  This time it didn’t turn but stayed right in front as if we were driving in tandem through the back roads of time when autumn and spring blended into gentle memories. 

--td