Nothing evoked the feeling of dread in those years like the phrase, "Honey, I got it for the right price!" Generally it was a car and the car was generally worth precisely what was paid. The "Kitty Hotel" sticks in my mind as the ultimate example. A 122 station wagon free for the hauling that sat in the back yard of a house in the city for years, serving as lodging for various stray cats. The cats gained access through a hole in the rotted out floor and each tenant took care to mark this car as his own. It was the only time I've ever opened up a car and hosed down the interior. After applying a bottle of Lysol and a few days of airing out it was tolerable, but I was never too particular about locking it or taking the key out of the ignition.

So when he called me at the office and said, "Honey, how would you like to go to California?" I was feeling pretty confident about taking the trip because real money was paid for the cars we were driving back. Okay, at least $500.

My former partner, JT, had a small automotive repair facility that specialized in repairing older Swedish, English and Italian cars. Business was sporadic because he refused to hang a shingle or list a phone number. Potential clients were screened by their vibes or how acceptable their references were. To supplement the shop income, he took to the road several times a year to secure for resale an older, but not quite vintage, car whose origin was one of the previously mentioned countries. He would head for a salt-free zone where a currently indulgent family member was living. Once the car was limped in, the family garage would be commandeered for the necessary repairs and rebuilds. After the two or three weeks required for the process, everyone was ready to part ways.

The plan was for him to fly out in advance and have the cars ready to drive home by the time I arrived. Packing would typically start at the last possible minute. He'd grab a few clothes, some parts and the battered metal tool box loaded to the point of pulling your shoulder out of its socket.

The Grey Ghost, one of many 122s that rotated through the inventory, was pressed into service for this airport run. It was a well-traveled sedan treated to a casually applied coat of primer. The hope was it would sell before the rust could reappear.

Occasionally, a 140 would be in stock, but the market was too brisk to keep them around for our own use. Given his choice, we would have run a 544, but the supply was drying up. 240s were the devil's work, a sure sign that Volvo had sold out to corporate greed heads (they were too expensive anyway). The little English and Italian cars were fun in the summer, but the Volvos did the grunt work year-round, especially during the Midwest winters. They got the absolute minimum of maintenance required to stay on the road. I heard more than once, "It may be running on three cylinders, but a Volvo will run on three cylinders."

The roughly 70-mile trip to the airport took us 55 minutes in daytime traffic. One did not distract the driver with idle chat during these arcade-like runs. Particularly when the driver has impaired vison and idolizes Stirling Moss.

In those days, it was still possible to carry on a tool box, but it had to be inspected. Weary and cynical airport personnel would sigh deeply as the essence of WD40 filled their nostrils. Piles of hand tools and greasy parts in leaky plastic bags would tumble down the belt. If the security person were to snatch up one of these bags and demand an explanation regarding its contents, they might be begging for mercy before it was over. Trotting and clanking, he headed to the boarding area. He wasn't very tall, but the rainbow suspenders, salt & pepper braid and the black beret made it easy to follow his progress. He disappears into the terminal. I head for home. It takes me an hour and 45 minutes.

Reluctant to be fettered by the commitment of long term parking, I made arrangements to stay overnight with friends who lived close to the airport. The weather was still clear, so I took the car least likely to be missed in the coming months in case it got stranded. It was a '63 Hillman Minx Phaeton. Not your fathers car, more like your grandfathers car. It had a hole in the middle of the front bumper to accommodate the hand crank. Pop the bonnet to reveal the handy remote push button starter. Do not let the uninitiated provide an unsupervised jump start as its earth is positive. The AM radio would bring in a single local station which I never managed to locate on another radio. Old country music standards by Kitty Wells and the like was all that ever crackled through the speakers.

We got on the big highway headed toward our destination in the slow lane, because the Hillman gained momentum rather than accelerating, and braked unreliably. Incredibly cute, petite, and chrome that wouldn't quit aside, the Hillman made a 122 feel like cutting edge technology. We might've been heading to southern California, but we were driving back to the Midwest in late December. I couldn't help but notice that none of the amenities I counted on for dealing with the cold weather had been packed in JT's carry-on bag. During the next week, I acquired several yards of canvas and some cotton rope, got out the old sewing machine and presto, the Mother Of All Duffle Bags was ready for service. It was crammed with felt-pack boots, a pair of Carhartts, wooly hats, down vests, mittens and sleeping bags. It looked like a giant sausage. It was nearly unmanageable.

My first impression of LA was traffic. Traffic and air that burned my eyes. I wanted to know why more people didn't shoot each other on the LA freeways. We arrived at the house of JT's sister and brother-in-law. Guess what? The cars weren't quite ready for the trip. The cars, by the way, were a '67 122 wagon and a '62 Jaguar MkII sedan. The 122 was clearly used, but very nice by Salt-Belt standards and it had a freshly rebuilt engine. The Jag had been in storage for years and was "in process" as a restoration project. It was complete, rust-free and very tired. It had patches of blue and red paint interspersed with grey primer. JT was feverishly working on some front end problems on my arrival. It appeared that we would be a bit behind schedule. My job, I was instructed as I received a large cardboard box, was to reassemble the dash, console, window, and door trim of the Jag. I looked in the box with a kazillion parts wood and metal. I looked to the heavens. I went to work. Nearly every part got used. There must be a Girl Scout merit badge for this.

Task number two was a tune-up for the resident 122. Piece of cake, this I could do in my sleep, and practically was. I was into the points and condenser part of the program when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something suspended in midair between the valve cover and firewall. It was high-gloss black with a distinctive red pattern. Even though I had never seen one of these critters in my native Midwest, some instant recognition center in my brain directed my right arm to grab the nearest thing and squash it. In the second after that, my mind articulated the identity of the critter as the elegant and treacherous Black Widow.

It's 11:00 p.m. Christmas eve in LA and now it's raining as we wrap up packing the cars. After nearly a week of repairs, we're in pretty good shape. We're equipped with bias-ply tires, one working wiper (on the driver's side) per car, and no radios but who needs them. The Jag's oil pressure is a bit low, somewhere between 12 and 15 pounds, but that's what 20-50 weight is for. There is that one little repair there simply wasn't time for. On the Jag there's a valve on the heater core that opens and closes. It's frozen in the closed position. A most regrettable omission. It's good to be leaving LA. Even at this late hour traffic is heavy. I'm driving the 122 wagon with a tractor beam on the Jag's Lucas taillight lenses. The rain, the headlight glare, the bumper to bumper traffic I'm feeling just a bit queasy. To JT, it's all one big rally and LA is a special challenge. Night vision is a bit of a problem for him and he couldn't read the signs until he was really close. We had a couple of false starts up the ramp oops wrong one across the grass and over the curb for an impromptu merge into traffic. Finally, we exit on I-15 heading for I-40 and the state line.

Somewhere on I-15, we get separated. Just outside of Barstow, I spot the Jag on an exit ramp and pull over. We head into a large self-serve gas station for a break. The Jag has developed a clutch shudder. "Well," I suggest, "Why don't we adjust it?" It's agreed; we adjust. My job is to sit in the Jag and push the clutch pedal when prompted. JT will crawl under and adjust. He rifles through the tool box and comes back with the wrenches and a jack. A scissor jack borrowed from a Fiat 124 Spyder. I'm no physics major, but something doesn't seem quite right about this. The little jack lifts the Jag with no complaint. I caution, "Don't touch the jack." After a series of thunks, clicks and muffled, directives the clutch adjustment finally meets his approval. I get out of the car and he gets out from under it. I watch the jack explode into a dozen flying pieces as he makes the first counter-clock wise turn to let the car down. I feel the ka-thud as the Jag drops. "Shit!" he says, "that was our only jack!"

The goal is to get to the state line before we stop for the night. On I-40, the traffic thins out, the rain lightens up and the driving gets easy. The only incident of interest is an overturned log truck near Needles. Logs the size of phone poles are scattered over the highway and the truck is flat on its side. There's one police car and everyone else is picking their way through the mess. We find a rest stop near the border and crawl into the back of the wagon.

I picked up an air mattress in LA, so it should be pretty cushy, but there's the table saw. He got it for the right price and it's attached to an old kitchen table, because it's belt-driven by a separate motor. When you wake up in the morning, you just have to remember to move slowly.

Day two is clear and cool. The desert is a fascinating contrast to the landscape I'm familiar with. We can even drive side-by-side for miles before we see anyone on our side of the highway. Approaching Flagstaff, we start to gain altitude. At 5000 feet I notice two things. First, it's starting to snow. Second, the 122 is starting to run differently. It's not long before the snow is heavy. It's dusty snow, like talcum powder, and every time a car passes, an impenetrable cloud surrounds you. We're in a small clump of traffic just east of Flagstaff when I notice the Jag is starting to pull away. The 122 has become less responsive at this altitude. I will not be pursuing.

Apparently, JT has decided he's just got to pass that semi that's kicking up the giant wall of snow in every direction. The Jag is swallowed in a cloud of snow and disappears, then reappears, then disappears. I can't help but notice as I glance out the side window that those are tree tops right beside the road. I formulate my 911 call. JT finally resigns himself to a position behind the semi and I breath easier for now.

We descend to 5000 feet and the snow stops completely. The semi pulls over at the next exit, the Jag follows and so do I. The only building in sight is a small log truck stop with signs advising us to watch for rattlesnakes. The driver climbs out of the truck, looks at JT and says, "Buddy, you had me worried."

It's Christmas day, and everyone who comes into this truck stop gets fed dinner on the house. There are three large tables with benches next to the kitchen. The kitchen, dining area and store are in one long room. Bowls and platters piled with traditional holiday fare are passed between a dozen or so travelers. The driver asks us where we're headed. He's going to Nashville. He wishes he could load our cars and give us a ride, but company policy, you know I'm wondering if he could be bribed and how much it would take.

It's close to sunset when we drive though the Painted Cliffs in eastern Arizona. The view is simply stunning. Albuquerque is the destination today. My parents live there and they have amenities I'm looking forward to, like a hot shower and fresh vegetables. We stop for gas in Gallup. I forget to take the gas cap off the roof of the wagon after the fill up. The wagon will continue the trip with a rag stuffed in its filler neck.

See more of Dean's artwork at: www.tconl.com/~dvavak