by Dan Walker
Three generations of MGA addicts, father Dan, daughter Jessica, and granddaughter Lola. They will be inheriting this and one other ’60 MGA when finished. Every time they come over, little Lola says, “Papa, how’s the car coming?” and runs out to the garage to see it. I tore the car down in 1973, but sadly, never worked on it when my daughter was younger. I mentioned maybe selling it once a few years ago and got the rather indignant reply, “What?!! Do you realize that I’ve been walking past that car every day of my life? You’ve got to finish it!” Jessica would gladly have gotten her hands dirty helping me then, but I let that opportunity slip away. Ah, hindsight! So, finish it I will so the three of us can enjoy it together! Lola wants to know if her car seat will fit in it!
By Denny Hale
A long time ago when my daughter was about five years old, she came to the garage and asked if she could help work on the “G” (that’s what she called it). I was bleeding the clutch, so I said sure, get in and push the pedal down when I tell you to, and then release it when I tell you. She stretched out and reached the pedal. All worked out well. A few days later, I was struggling working on a carburetor, and she came out and asked to help. I said sure, get in and push down the pedal like we did before. OK, let it up. Push it down, and at that point I got sidetracked thinking about the carb. Two or three minutes later I heard this little voice: “Daddy, my leg’s getting tired.” Now I have four grandkids that help me work on my ’68 MGB every winter, getting it ready for spring. We started off rotating tires, four wheels, four g’kids. Then we change the oil together. And finally, we replace the spark plugs. Four plugs, four g’kids. I have them sign the plug so I know who changed which one. Breaks my heart to throw away a fouled, autographed plug. My grandsons wore tool belts with toy plastic tools when they were working in the garage with me. My four-year-old granddaughter told her mom, “I want a tool belt.” Being short on time, and very clever, my daughter said, “Girls don’t wear tool belts, we wear tool purses.” So she got her one of her old purses, put in a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, and she was fine.
by Coral Hurley
I vividly remember dad cruising up our gravel drive and parking the coral colored convertible swiftly under a giant tree that sat adjacent to his one-car workshop—complete with oil pit that my brother and I had to swear never to enter. Being of a curious nature, I knew that cars (especially cool, old ones) became warm while they were driven, but I decided I needed to know just how warm. My four-year-old self decided that the best way to test would be to wrap my tiny hand around the end of the tail pipe…for the sake of science, of course. Upon gripping the pipe I immediately snapped my hand back from the burning metal, my eyes filled with fat, rolling tears, and I bee-lined to the kitchen wailing for my mother. I never became a scientist, but I’m sure my father brought me an orange popsicle to ease my pain and tell me how proud he was of my bravery in the face of scientific discovery.
by Brian Sipling
I am a member of the Central Pennsylvania Triumph Club. I have a 1972 Triumph TR6 that my daughter and I enjoy working on and cruising in. Her name is Megan and she turned six on April 1st. A lot of times when we walk down to the garage she says to me, “Daddy can we take the Triumph?” Weather permitting my answer is always, yes sweetheart we sure can.