A STORY WORTH TELLING
“Early morning sunlight cascaded from lofty windows in the old downtown Center icehouse. They bounced gracefully off timeless curves outlining an aging body. For an old girl, she was still a beauty in the dim light and in my heart.”
— Leon Aldridge, 1993
I wrote those words 31 years ago last September. “Liz,” my grandparents’ 1957 Ford, will have been a member of the Aldridge family for 69 years come this November.
She’s lived 44 of those years with me, and I have no intention of her going anywhere as long as I’m still drawing a breath.
My father’s mother dubbed her two-tone green 1957 Ford “Liz.”
The two-door sedan became the beginning of my sporadic dabbling in old cars.
Others followed, including a couple of vintage Thunderbirds and a 1965 Malibu SS to start and then some 1960s vintage convertibles.
Liz, however, never objected to being neglected while others were driven.
Tail-finned, ragtopped, white-walled and chrome-plated glamour queens dazzled.
Multi- carburetor, dual-exhaust, tiresmoking muscle cars amazed. But Liz remained. One might have surmised she actually enjoyed the peace and quiet of retirement alongside a variety of garage mates.
I still remember brushing my fingers lightly through her thin coating of dust that morning, sending particles swirling and twinkling in the morning sunlight. I opened the driver’s door and enjoyed the aroma.
Old car interiors offer unique smells, often revealing age, make or background.
The seat springs groaned lightly beneath my weight.
“Not bad for an alloriginal car,” I thought. I scanned the metal and chrome dash, then gazed across the expanse of the big green hood. I touched the ignition switch, but on this morning, I let Liz rest, choosing peaceful silence in the warehouse over that of her V-8 motor.
Liz was born at the Garland Ford assembly plant in the fall of 1956 and was titled in my grandfather’s name in November at Travis Battles Ford dealership in Pittsburg. For a quarter of a century, she lived in a whiteframe garage at the corner of Cypress and Madison streets and ran errands to town, to work and to visit. On many of those trips, I was a youngster in the back seat, watching my grandmother drive and listening to my grandfather caution her.
“Watch out sister.
There’s a stop sign ahead,” he would say.
When age and illness confined him to a bed, Liz sat in the garage while my grandmother stayed home to care for the man she loved. When he died just days before Christmas 1967, Dad and I went to the garage to “awaken” Liz. She had traveled only 17,000 miles in her 10 years. A new battery and fresh gas brought her back to life.
Granny and Liz were back on the street, going places neither had dreamed of in a while. The old Ford with the little old lady peeping over the steering wheel was once again a common sight around town.
Granny eventually gave in to the desire for the luxury of power steering, an automatic transmission and air conditioning.
“You still want Liz?” she called one day to ask.
“You know I do,” I replied.
Liz was soon headed for a new home in Center. As I drove her south that Saturday in May, late evening spring breezes smelled of freshly mowed grass through open windows. Memories flowed: Driving lessons with my grandfather on shifting a “three-onthe- tree” and cruising the Kilgore College campus when Liz subbed for one of my ailing hot rods. Smiles when names came to mind while recalling dates when Liz provided transportation.
Once home, a gentle push on her door brought the usual solid “click” as it closed and latched with ease. As that early morning remembered a few years ago was ending, I walked a few steps, stopped and looked back at Liz sitting majestically in the corner. Bidding me goodbye with a gleam in her chrome. She knew it would be a while before I came calling again.
She also knew I would return to recall secrets the old car and I knew about each other.
Liz comes to mind again now with my decision to thin the herd. Too many to care for at this point in life.
But Liz knows she’s family, and when her more glamorous and valuable garage mates have moved on, she will remain.
She also knows she will be the last one to leave the ball when the lights are turned off for the last time.
— Contact Aldridge at leonaldridge@gmail. com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge.com
