In January last year, my aunt lost a three-year battle with pancreatic cancer. She fought hard, and her care team did its best to help her beat this terrible disease, but she finally succumbed.
My uncle, my mother’s brother, was devastated. He and his wife would have celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary last July. He found himself at loose ends, complaining that the house was “too quiet” and “empty” without her.
He did, however, take the time, finally, to take care of his own health. First, he had to undergo a much overdue colonoscopy to ensure that the stomach cancer he survived several years ago had not come back. Then he had surgery to repair a torn rotator cuff.
Designated driver
As my uncle had to be sedated for both procedures, he knew he wouldn’t be able to or allowed to drive himself home. Since I work from home and am no longer responsible for carpool and day care drop offs and pick ups, he asked me if I could drive him home after each procedure. When I asked him how he planned on getting to each appointment, he assured me that he could just take Uber. That seemed reasonable to me, and I agreed to be his designated driver.
The first procedure, a colonoscopy, was very straightforward. The doctor found no evidence of cancer. In fact, by the time my uncle walked out of the recovery area, he was feeling so good that we had to stop at Nielsen’s Deli, located just up the street from the outpatient surgery center, to pick him up a roast beef sandwich and a Coke, as he had not eaten after midnight the previous evening.
His second procedure, surgery to repair a torn rotary cuff in the left shoulder, was a different story altogether. As it would be an especially extensive and painful surgery, I knew my uncle would be on pain medication for at least a few days and, therefore, would need needed someone to stay with him for a few days until he was off the pain medication and could drive and take care of himself. I agreed to be both designated driver and temporary caregiver.
Let’s do lunch!
Three days after the surgery, my uncle was feeling pretty good, so I asked him if he wanted to get out of the house and grab some lunch. He said yes, so off we went.
My uncle was craving Tex-Mex and suggested a place near his home. On the way, I realized that one of my favorite places, Molina’s Cantina, was closer, so that’s where we went. It turned out to be a great choice, but not for the reason you might suspect. My uncle ended up with more than lunch – he also bought a car!
When we arrived at Molina’s, I parked my SUV and walked around to the passenger side to help my uncle out of his seat. It was then that I noticed a mint condition vintage red Triumph TR4 convertible across the lot. (I love sports cars; in fact, when my daughter was in middle school, I drove a 2005 red BMW Z-4 coupe, which I still miss very much. But that’s another story.)
The Triumph’s top was down, showcasing its rich black leather interior. It had been washed recently, and its paint shone in the sunlight. I also noticed that the front license plate had been replaced with a vanity plate for The Citadel.
Love at first sight
“Look at that beautiful car!” I said to my uncle.
My uncle turned, looked at the car, and said, “That’s the exact same car your father was driving the night he asked your mother to marry him.”
“Really? How cool is that?” I exclaimed.
I had often heard the story of how my father had wrecked his sports car on the way to ask my mother to marry him. My father, an F-8 Crusader pilot, literally drove off a bridge that night, totaling the car as well as his knee. The small town where my grandparents lived did not have an ambulance, so the local funeral home sent its hearse to take my father to the hospital in nearby Corpus Christi. Doctors there discovered that he had shattered his kneecap. Apparently it was worth it, though, because my mother agreed to marry him! And, fortunately, the Marine Corps allowed him to continue to fly.
My uncle started back towards the entrance to the restaurant while I snapped some photos of the car with my iPhone (one is at the top of this post). Then I went on into the restaurant, where we were quickly seated. As it was late in the afternoon, the restaurant was empty except for the two of us. When the server came to take our drink order, I asked him to bring me a Diet Coke and to bring my uncle a margarita made with the bar’s best tequila.
“He’s had a rough time of it,” I told the server over my uncle’s objections. “He deserves it.”
The server smiled and left for the bar. My uncle and I perused the menu and snacked on chips and salsa while we waited for our drinks.
When the server returned, he explained that the bartender suggested that, rather than wasting fine tequila on a margarita, my uncle order a regular margarita and a separate shot of the bar’s best tequila. We agreed to that. Before the server left, my uncle asked if he could also have a glass of iced tea. Seriously. I have the photos.
The server quickly returned with our drinks and took our order.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her
While we waited for our lunch to arrive, my uncle sipped his tequila and stared over my shoulder through the restaurant’s plate glass windows at the little red sports car. I made small talk, but he was too distracted by the vision of the Triumph to really pay attention to me or his food when it arrived.
“You know what your problem is?” my uncle asked.
“I have several. Which one are you referring to?” I replied jokingly.
“You don’t know how to hot wire a car.”
“That’s true,” I said. “However, I’ve never really needed that skill in my line of work.”
“I wonder who that car belongs to?” My uncle pondered, still gazing longingly through the window at the object of his desire.
“We could ask the server,” I replied.
Seeming not to hear me, my uncle said, “I wonder if the owner would be interested in selling it to me?”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” I replied. “We need to find out who owns the car and then we can ask the owner about it.”
That got his attention.
When the server returned to check on us, I asked him if he knew whether or not the owner of the red convertible parked out front was a customer in the restaurant or its bar. The server didn’t know but agreed to ask the hostess and the bartender.
When he returned with the bill for our lunch, the server told us that no one knew who owned the car.
“Oh, well,” my uncle said, much like Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh. “I guess we’ll never know.”
I took that as a challenge.
I take matters into my own hands, literally
“I tell you what,” I replied. “I’ll write a note with my name, cell phone number, and email address and leave it on the windshield under one of the wipers. That way, if the owner is interested in selling, he or she can contact me. ”
My uncle thought it was a long shot, but I was determined.
I pulled out my credit card and placed it in the folder the server had provided with the tab. Then I rummaged through my purse for a piece of paper, finally tearing a deposit clip in half and scribbling a note on it with a pen.
“Stay put!” I told my uncle before walking outside to place the note on the car.
I carefully lifted one of the car’s windshield wipers and placed the note under it. I turned to walk back into the restaurant. I had taken only a few steps when I heard a man call out to me.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Do you want to buy that car?” he asked.
I stopped dead in my tracks. I turned to my right; the voice had come from a man seated with two friends at a table on the restaurant’s palm frond roofed patio bar. He was waving at me to get my attention.
“I don’t, “ I replied, “but I know someone who might be interested. How much do you want for it?”
“Oh, it’s not my car. It’s his,” the man replied with a grin, pointing to one of his two companions at the table.
I walked over to the group; the men were the only people seated outside. This was not surprising, as it was about 3:30pm in the afternoon.
I introduced myself and then had a brief conversation with the car’s owner, a young handsome man with short blonde hair and blue eyes. He explained that the other two gentlemen were his business clients and asked if he could join me and my party in the restaurant once he cleared his bar tab. I agreed and hurried back inside to my uncle.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Well, I found the owner of the car. He is sitting outside on the patio with two of his clients. I told him you might be interested in buying his car. He’ll be here in a minute to talk to you.”
My uncle shook his head in disbelief.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, the owner of the car walked over. He introduced himself to my uncle, pulled out a chair, and sat down at our table.
My uncle asked, “What model year is your Triumph?
“It’s a 1963 TR4A,” the owner replied.
“That’s what I thought,” my uncle said. “My niece’s father had the exact same car. He used to let me wash it for him. I was twelve and thought it was the greatest car ever. Sadly, my brother-in-law totaled the car one night on the way to ask my sister to marry him.”
The owner thought that was a great story.
My uncle added, “Sadly, he died a few months after they were married. He was a Marine fighter pilot. His plane crashed in bad weather just outside Barksdale AFB in Louisiana. I accompanied my sister to Arlington National Cemetery for the burial “
“That’s terrible,” the owner said.
“Yes, it was,” my uncle replied. “So, my niece here tells me that you are interested in selling your car.”
“Yes,” the owner replied. “I have made the decision to sell it. I want to buy something larger and newer, like a Porsche. I’ve been pulled over twice recently by the Houston Police Department while driving with my two young children in the back seat. The police consider it is unsafe for me to do that.”
“How much do you want for it?” my uncle inquired.
The owner provided an asking price, adding that the car had been completely refurbished. In fact, he had just recently replaced all of the leather upholstery and interior trim.
My uncle pondered the price for a moment and then named a counter offer.
The owner thought about it before explaining that the price he had named was pretty firm; a member of the Houston Triumph Club had made him an offer just a few days before we met.
“I would really like to sell you the car, however,” he continued, “because I think you will take good care of it and love it as much as I do. Maybe we can work something out.”
It was my turn to interject.
“I noticed The Citadel vanity plate on the front of your car, and I see you are wearing a Citadel ring,” I said. “Back in 1995 while attending an NEH Summer Institute at the University of Montana, I met someone who taught Military History at The Citadel. I can’t recall his last name, but we all knew him as ‘Mel B.’ Did you know a professor by that name when you attended?”
“Yes! I do remember him,” the owner replied, adding, “It’s a small world!”
We chatted a little while longer before the owner handed my uncle a business card with his contact information.
“I’ll give you a call in a day or two,” my uncle said, “and we can set up a time for my mechanic to check out the engine, etc.”
“Sounds good to me,” the owner said before shaking each of our hands and getting up from the table.
Once the man had left the restaurant, my uncle turned to me and said, “Your aunt would really want me to have that car.”
“Oh, I agree,” I replied. “I think it would be a great way for you to get out and meet people, too, since he said the Houston Triumph Club holds regular breakfast meetings.”
We talked some more about personal financial issues. I won’t recount any more of the conversation out of respect for my uncle’s privacy; suffice it to say that my uncle could afford it.
I walked my uncle back to my car and got him settled before taking him back to his house. I packed up my things and returned home, but not before insisting that my uncle call me any time, day or night, if he needed help.
Red Hot Mama
A few days later, my uncle called to let me know that he had bought the car.
“I’m so happy for you!” I exclaimed. “Do you have it at the house now?”
“Yes,” he replied. “The mechanic checked out the car. It needed a minor repair, so it took a few days to complete the transaction. I drove up to the owner’s house in north Houston with Bruno (my uncle’s 8 year old black Labrador Retriever) and took him for a quick ride around the block before gave the owner a check and had the car loaded onto the tow truck for transport to my house.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to going for a ride myself,” I said.
“Just let me know when you’re available,” my uncle replied.
“Did you give it a name yet?” I asked.
“Yes – Red Hot Mama,” he said.
“I like it!” I replied. “Again, I’m so happy that I took you to lunch that day and helped connect you with the owner.”
I was just delighted. I could hear the difference in my uncle’s voice. He sounded better than he had in months.
My uncle got his groove back
Buying that car marked a turning point for my uncle. He soon met a lovely woman who had lost her husband to cancer seven years earlier; they have been dating for over a year now. My uncle regularly posts photos of the good times he has enjoyed with Red Hot Mama, too: pictures of Bruno “riding shotgun,” the grandchildren’s first ride to the snow cone stand a few blocks from his home, his first breakfast with the Houston Triumph Club, and his first road trip with his newfound friends.
Red Hot Mama definitely helped my uncle get his groove back, but he won’t meet me for lunch anymore because he says it cost him too much money the last time, even though I picked up the tab for lunch. Sooner or later, we’ll get around to that ride. I’m looking forward to it!
