by Louise Crawford

Yesterday my husband and I drove his mother’s old diesel Mercedes up to Sonora, an old gold mining town in the Sierra foothills. We were on mission to pick up the orange Porsche 914/6 he inherited from his uncle who died in 2002.

More than 2 years ago, my husband delivered his sports car to the garage of a world famous Porsche race car driver and mechanic. And it’s been in rehab ever since.   Prior to 2002, the car spent more than 18 years in a barn and was covered in mud, bird poop and the exhaust of bats (pictured to the left: the car after it was initially cleaned up).

We were pleased to see that this man was able to bring the car back from oblivion. He even had it painted the original bright pumpkin orange– OMIGOD ORANGE. You can’t miss it.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. The car was such a mess the last I saw it. Truth be told, I was pretty furious that he wanted to spend so much money repairing a car he would rarely use. But I knew it was  full of emotional value;  it was important, in memory of his uncle, that the car be restored to its former glory.

Seeing that bright orange car glowing in the sun, I understood why it meant so much to my husband. For the moment, I was even able to overlook the outrageous amount of money we’d spent to fix up the thing.

Truly, the  car is a thing of beauty: A work of art to behold and drive in with the top down.

I followed behind the orange Porsche in his mother’s sluggish Mercedes. My husband looked so happy driving the car down Route 49 to Tracy – even if it still made some funny noises and the carburetor sputtered a bit. It was a momentous day, really. A day for celebrating the car and the man who used to own it.