sludgos mile markers

What to Know About sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 215

Byjustpastevehicles

Last Monday morning was bright and warm and sunny as I pulled the ‘B into my newfound favorite parking spot at MorningLight, the ‘senior living center’ where Big Sis and I transitioned the Beehive two months ago. It’s a big facility and parking is at a premium so I was glad to discover the curbside slot, right around the corner of the reception hall and dining room where all the ground-floor residents have patios and yard spaces that extend down to the street. Honestly I’m not sure it’s an official spot, but no one has said anything about it to me, so I’m going to keep parking there until they do. Besides, it’s right in front of Artie’s place and I knew he didn’t mind. After all, he was my newest and bestest car-buddy.

Artie. An older-than-time specimen of the Greatest Generation. One-hundred-one years young, he’d crow if you really wanted to know. Always seemed to be out on his patio when I’d pull up at the edge of his postage-stamp sized yard, tending to his geraniums and petunias along with Poochie, his tiny and tattered and toothless grey puff of a mutt who suffered from profound delusions of pit bull grandeur. When I started parking the TT there, Artie and I would simply trade cordial smiles and cheery wishes for a good morning or afternoon or evening, but on the first day that I brought the ‘B things changed between us. We became friends.

I’d decided to take the ‘B that day because it was one of the first decent spring days we’d had and I was itching to get it back on the road. Scratched that itch and grinned ear-to-ear all the way to the center. Putted into my regular spot then hopped out and gave Artie, out on his patio of course, a quick wave before starting to snap down and zip up the tonneau. Didn’t notice Artie get up from his chair and walk to the curb. Startled the heck out of me when I turned and saw him only an arm’s length away, but the giant toothy smile that creased across his timelessly handsome face put me at ease. Even his coal-black eyes were smiling at me, sparkling at me.

“What year?”, he said, nodding toward the ‘B.

“Uh…It’s a ’68.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Well, come this August it’ll be forty-six years.”

He gasped in astonishment and took a step back. Gave a low whistle and said he had to hear The Story so I told it to him—the same story I’ve told hundreds of times by now. The story of how I was nineteen when I picked up the ‘B’s rusted-out, rod-knocking hulk in a hot and dusty alleyway in East Grand Forks, Minnesota, for eleven sweat-soaked hundred-dollar bills. How I’d used it as my daily for a few years after but didn’t anymore. That now it was a sunny-day cruiser only and hadn’t seen a drop of rain in years, unless you count the cloudburst at the British car show last summer.

He gave me another warm smile and said he was an MG guy. Had been all his life. That he’d started off with a TC. Bought it new when he got back from the European Theater. I raised a curious eyebrow and said that now it was my turn to hear The Story. He laughed, then pointed toward his patio chairs.

“You a coffee drinker, sonny?”

Over the next few weeks visiting with Artie became a regular feature of visiting the Beehive, kind of like a Bonus Attraction. We talked nearly every day, sometimes for just a few minutes but other times for a half an hour or even more. He was an interesting guy to be sure. Born in the proverbial log cabin, he was raised the old-fashioned way by old-fashioned parents who provided plenty of love and affection but also taught their kids the importance of self-discipline and the merits of turning in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wages. He’d put that knowledge to use, graduating at the top of his class before enlisting in the Army in ’43 and heading off to serve his country. And he’d served it well. Had a display case filled with shiny medals sitting on his bookshelf to prove it. He spoke openly about the battles he’d fought and the feats of courage he’d seen, able to laugh now at how frightened he’d been the whole time, like when he’d heard those pinging sounds coming from the other side of the release door of the Higgins boat as he was approaching Omaha Beach that fateful June morning in ’44 with all the other grunts. Gave me goosebumps just imagining it.

He furrowed his brow when I told him my grandfather was in one of those boats too. Frowned and shook his head when I said he’d survived the landing only to be killed in a later battle. He said he understood the pain one feels from the loss of a loved one in war. Told me about the telegram he got back in ’65. The one reporting his only son, Jason, had made the ultimate sacrifice for his country over in Vietnam. He showed me a faded picture of The Kid— that’s what he called him—standing in his full-dress uniform next to his blue Impala SS alongside his mother, Carolyn, Artie’s loving spouse for over sixty-five years. Then he got quiet. And so did I.

He also had a daughter, Cathleen, who lived with her hubby in a sprawling empty-nest perched high on the benches south of town. She’d taken over Artie’s machining company when he’d retired and he was proud of her as a dad could be. He’d moved in with the two of them after Carolyn passed but there was lots of money around and they wanted to do some traveling before they got too old so they placed him in the apartment at MorningLight as a matter of convenience as well as necessity. Artie told me he understood where they were coming from and that he was glad they didn’t have to worry about taking care of him anymore, what he was going to eat or if he’d fallen down or had taken his medicines. Said he was surprised how much he liked living there. There was good food and good people and lots of things to do, like sit on the patio with Poochie and take care of his flowers and meet nice people, like me.

I think I enjoyed my visits with Artie so much because they were always pleasant. We chatted about everything. Everything. Even politics and religion. Agreed to disagree on many things and laughed at our differences. Like the Beatles being better than the Stones. RC Cola being better than Coke. Lamborghini being better than Ferrari. And the Vikings being better than the Packers. Way better. A big Vikings Fan, Artie was, and true to his word he was a big MG fan too. Replaced that first TC with a TD, then a TF before moving to an MGA Twin Cam. Then there was a series of ‘Bs and ‘BGTs and a ‘C convertible and even an MGB-V8. Had pics of them all in a big dusty album he stored in a box on the top shelf off his closet. Had lots of other dusty albums of pics too. Pics of the kids. And of Carolyn, of course.

So I was looking forward to seeing Artie once again last Monday morning but when I parked the ‘B outside his place I immediately noticed he wasn’t on his patio and the slider was closed and its curtain was drawn shut. In fact, all his curtains were drawn shut. Went into his building and knocked on his door but no one answered. Same thing happened the next day and the day after that and when I got there the following day I was dumbstruck by what I saw—the slider curtain was open once more but Artie’s apartment was completely empty. I piled out of the car and rushed to the main office and asked the receptionist if she knew what had happened to Artie and Poochie in apartment B-119 but she blushed then quickly averted her eyes. Mumbled something or another about resident confidentiality then said she hoped I understood. I sighed. Told her I did. Totally.

I visited Mom again today. Another bright and warm and sunny morning so I took the ‘B. Parked in my usual spot and noticed Artie’s slider door was wide open. There were painters inside giving the scuffed and faded walls a fresh coat of soothing beige. The carpet people were there too, measuring the floors to replace the worn-out wall-to-wall, making the space like new again and ready for its next occupants, as though Artie and Poochie had never been there.

I gave a bittersweet grin. Settled myself deeply into the cozy black leather of my bucket seat and traced my finger around the delicately thin wooden steering wheel. Felt the spring breeze gently blowing through my hair and the sun shining on my face. Thought of how many people I’d met in my life just because of this silly little white car of mine. And how many others I had yet to meet. Good people. Wonderful people. People like Artie.

Go Vikings.

Peaceful travels…

sludgo

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