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.