120 Goodbye

I no longer remember exactly how I met Jim Brown, who lived in Bellevue and was a member of a Jaguar club that I had joined to help with my 1955 XK140MC fixed head coupe, but one day in October, 1977, he showed up in my yard with a trailer hauling a beatup 1952 XK120 Jaguar roadster.

His mother was executor of the will of a Stanley W. Eaton of Oakland, California, who had died in possession of the car.  I had been looking for some years for a Jag roadster I could afford.  I bought it.

According to Jim, Stanley Eaton had been a two-star admiral, the highest ranking dentist in the U.S. Navy, and Jim had the stars that had been on the car's bumper as evidence.

Eaton had been stationed in Greece in 1952 when he retired, and on his way home to Oakland had purchased the Jag at the factory (the manufacturer's numbers indicated that it had been built in June, 1952), shipped it to New Jersey, and had driven it to California where it had been his only car for the rest of his life.  Jim showed me several photos of the car from its better days.

Eaton had been a drunk; he had not driven the car very far or very fast, but he often stopped it suddenly, against immovable objects;

consequently, there wasn't much sheet metal that hadn't been damaged and repaired, generally badly.

Under the ratty yellow paint, Bondo filled doors, deck lid, fenders.  The bonnet was tweaked.  The point of the right front fender had a six or eight inch hole that a body man, using an old sanding disk as backing, had filled with Bondo.  The good news?  Eaton had never tried to restore the car.  Except for the cigar lighter and one side curtain, it was all there, even the small Bakelite insulator that held the warning light behind the fuel/oil gauge, which I found on the floor among pine needles and other debris.

I found a replacement lighter from a collector in Arizona.  (Before the internet─I spent hours writing letters, searching club newsletters, reading ads.)  I drove the car to body shops in Corvallis and Philomath; most would not even offer an estimate for repairs.  Then I found Terry Olson, a magician with a torch.  We rented a garage in Philomath and went to work.  Using paint remover and plastic spatulas to avoid scratching metal, I excavated down to the original metal: steel fenders, aluminum bonnet, deck, and doors.  We rented an hydraulic jack and forced the frame back to factory specks.  With hammer and anvil and torch, Terry straightened steel and worked the stretched and crumpled aluminum.  We welded a piece of Chevy fender to fill the hole in the front fender and hammered it to match the other fender.  Then the magic part.  Aluminum is tricky: heat it enough to shrink, heat it too much and it's a puddle on the floor.  At the end of one day, we sat contemplating the work.  Terry smoked a joint, I sipped a beer.  He picked up a twisted bit of channel that had originally housed the rubber gasket that kept dirt from drifting into the trunk.  It was about half an inch wide and maybe three feet long, once straight with squared sides, it now looked a bit like a pretzel.  He clamped one end to a steel plate to act as a heat sink, then fired up his torch and with the flame and a pick began to tap the metal back to its original shape, humming "ta da, ta da, ta da," as he tapped.  I said, "Why do that?  That stuff is standard stock channel, a buck or so a foot."  He took another hit on his joint, and said, "I like the challenge."

And he beat it back to its factory shape.  He was truly a magician.  Eventually, I pop-riveted it in place and glued in the proper gasket.  And he went after each piece of metal with the same attitude and skill.  After I don't remember how many hours, I had a straight Jaguar, no Bondo, no filler, just fine, sweet metal.  Terry moved and sent me a postcard from northern Idaho.  I primed the pieces, reattached fenders, doors, deck, and bonnet, chrome and trim.  I started driving.  I drove in town, in the country, drove to the coast, drove to the mountains, drove to Portland, picked up Laurel and drove some more.

In 1982, I decided to work on the mechanics, build them back to original.  I parked the car in the barn, but other things intervened.  A year passed, then another.  I bought other cars, got distracted.

Three or four years ago, I received a call from a man in California asking if I still had the 120 and was I willing to sell.  I told him I had it, and for the right price, I would consider selling.  He asked if he could see it, and a few weeks later came to the ranch and looked it over.  He spent most of the time tsk-tsking, telling me all that he thought was wrong with it and how much it would cost to get it running.  Generally, he was annoying.  He made an offer.  I turned him down.  He left, and I figured that was that.  Then about six months later, he called again and made a higher offer which I also turned down.  About every six months he called, raising the amount.  I told him the car was not for sale and stopped hearing from him.  Then a few months ago, he called again with another offer.  This time I accepted.  We made arrangements, and I got the car ready and pulled it out of the barn for the first time in 33 years.

The next day, the car carrier arrived.  We pushed the car across the road,

cranked it onto the carrier, and after 38 years, the 120 was gone.

And three years later, photos in an email revealed the rebirth.

The car was shipped to Italy where it has been restored to concours condition as a period race car.

Amazing what is possible with enough money.

Boulder 2015

We flew November 11 to Jim and Faye's to spend a few days.  One of the first visits after we arrived was to see the Mahaffy cache, 83 Clovis-era stone tools discovered in 2008 by a crew digging a fishpond in a Boulder yard, opened for viewing at the CU Museum of Natural History only in October.

Protein residue tests of the tools indicated that some were used to butcher camels and horses some 13,000 years ago.

The museum is small but has a number of other fine articles on display, including an unusual shaped pot with handle

and a nice carrying basket.

We drove to Longmont for breakfast with

Shawn and Ginger, Taylor and Joshua.  For this photo, Joshua is under the table.

On the day before a predicted storm, we drove up Trail Ridge

and took requisite tourist photos.

And this is what you see:  the highest point in the right quarter of the shot is Longs Peak, the top 14,259 feet above sea level.

Deb stands on the edge.

Snow blows off Longs Peak as clouds begin to move in.

In Estes Park, Faye and Deb shopped while Jim and I lunched at Lonigans (Guinness on tap), located in what once the lobby of the Hupp Hotel, built in 1907 or 8 (sources differ), the same year as the Stanley.

When we emerged, we discovered a six-point trying to negotiate the traffic on Elkhorn Avenue.

Last we saw, he was headed out of town.  We followed not long after, but in a different direction.

While the weather continued to change, Jim and I walked his neighborhood so I could take a few shots of the "Mushroom House,"

designed in 1969 by Charles A. Haertling, used for a brief sequence in Woody Allen's 1973 film, Sleeper.

Haertling also designed Jim and Faye's house, which one can find illustrated on the web.

The storm arrived overnight, but to the south, where Castle Rock got 18 inches, snarling traffic and closing schools, while the Denver airport got only a few inches.

We flew out about 40 minutes late, and I managed a few shots of new snow.

Spring Pics, 2015

Camp Robber Caught:  Birds fly into the dog run to steal Annie's kibbles; she responds by trying to cover her bowl with the cedar chips in the run.  This jay stopped on the way out long enough for the Leica.  April 5.

The Foggy Foggy Dew:  "And the only, only thing that I did that was wrong/ Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew."  About 7 in the morning, April 4, the pasture.

Went to O'Gallerie April 1 and couldn't resist this 19th century tradesman sign.

Deb at the Willamette Valley Spring Pickleball Rally, March 29.

She won Third in Women's Doubles at her skill level, and First in Mixed Doubles with her robbed-from-the-cradle partner, Will Gardner.

Patches asleep on the deck with one eye open in the warm afternoon.

Spotted Towhee in the brush.

Annie hangs on the gate, wants in, when I'm on the deck.  Poor thing, wants to chase the porch kitties.

Annie with a chew stick.  She was a year old at the end of March.

Deb polishes Bennie's teeth before the NCAA first round game for the OSU Women's BB team; they won, 76-62 against South Dakota State U, but didn't do so well later.

We visited the Seattle Art Museum's special exhibition:  Indigenous Beauty:  Masterworks of American Indian Art from the Diker Collection.  Incredible artifacts, in pristine condition, some up to a thousand years old.

At the Pacific Science Center in Seattle, we found "Faun with wine sack," originally part of a fountain, among the exhibit of artifacts found during excavations of Pompeii, on loan from the Naples National Archaeological Museum.

Later I found a 19th century copy, about 4 inches tall, at Arthur W. Erickson's in Portland.

We took the train to see the OSU Women's BB team play in the Pac-12 Tournament.  OSU lost the first game.

Night on the roof of the Metropolitan Hotel.

And we made the usual trek to Pike Street Market.

Of course, Deb had to stop at the original Starbuck's.

Annie loves to chew, and is especially fond of old blackberry canes.  The spikes must do something for her gums.  The book says "don't let them chew on sticks or stones." Good luck with that.

Old Cock.  He must be pushing 18 or 19 years, no tail, not much comb, but surviving.

One of the geese, some 30 yards out in the pasture.  I'm playing with the telephoto.

"Leave me alone.  I'm just another flower waiting for a bird to land on the feeder."

"HELP!  I'm being held in the yard against me will!"

I've been unsuccessfully stalking this little beauty all spring; finally caught him April 10: a Rufous Hummingbird.  According to Wikipedia, most Rufous winter in wooded areas in the state of Guerrero, Mexico, traveling more than 2,000 miles to summer homes from Oregon to Alaska─a prodigious journey for a bird weighing three or four grams.