I once had a mouse living in my 1963 Sunbeam Alpine. It stayed all winter. That mouse hid somewhere in the nooks of that car. Being a kindly soul, on occasion I’d leave a few French fries on the floor, finding them disappeared the next day. I miss them both. Each grand and glorious in their own way.
An English sports car, convertible, was a babe magnet in summer. In winter it was a horror story. My breath warmed the interior more than the car heater could do. We had a tattered woolen army blanket, grey with a one inch black stripe. It became my seat warmer. The car was very drafty and, being a gentleman, I would volunteer it to my date to keep her warm in winter. Presumably the mouse too warmed itself in its folds. Yew! Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it.
Kids today will never know what it's like to drive "a heap". As in, "Where'd you get that heap?” My passenger door would open randomly whilst I made left hand turns. I would reach over and hold my passenger in his seat or, if he had his arm on the door, he might swing out and I'd pull him back in. No one was shocked. It just was; it was funny then. It was expected. They were in “a heap”. If I had no passenger; if the door was unreachable or, more likely, if I was too lazy to stretch, the door would open and I would brake, then accelerate, creating door closing momentum. We could only afford heaps then. There were no credit cards, no down payments, much less easy car payments. We saved, then bought a heap. Then traded up for a better heap. I’m giggling to myself thinking about the danger, creativity and absurdity of it all.
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