On a lazy Sunday afternoon, I answered a knock on our backdoor. There stood my Uncle Raymond and Uncle Bobbie who said, “Our wives came to see your new babies–we came to see your new car.” Most of the guys I know treat their cars like their babies. Ken went outside to show off our ’62 maroon Chevy Corvair.
For the past three years, we’d been driving the ’56 Lincoln my husband had when we were married. He’d dreamed about that auto while he was still in the navy, “I knew it would be two years old before I could buy one but I didn’t car.” The vehicle had reached the point that it needed repairs. A trip to the shop was very expensive to fix the luxury car. It was time to replace it.
Fifteen years later, with spring in the air, a red convertible sitting on a Rockford lot caught Ken’s eye. Papers in the glove compartment detailed the service record of the ’65 Plymouth. My husband talked with the pervious owner, a man who farmed in the Poplar Grove area. The twelve-year-old auto became our second car.
On a lovely summer day, I heard a knock on our front door. I glanced out the window and saw a Corvette stopped at the curb. We didn’t know anyone who drove a Corvette–the fellow must be lost and need directions. I opened the door to a fortyish man who asked, “Is this where Ken Ditzler lives?”
I replied, “Yes, he’s around in the garage.”
Later, when Ken came in the house, he said, “That was the guy who used to own the convertible. He came by to make sure I was giving it a good home. He was happy with the way I was taking care of it.”
Have you had anyone come to your house to visit a car?
No, I can’t say that anyone has ever come to my home to check out a car, but then cars have never been very important to me or my husband except in a utilitarian way.