Saturday morning was an early start, but in fairness the hours of the night before seemed to tick slower than a second hand drawal around the watchface. Like a beating rhythm of uncertainty, all fears fell when the 60 year old Wolseley lit up, matched only by my racing heart and Dad’s eyes. If asked, I would have struggled to recite the sound before, but upon hearing the engine purr my childhood came back to life.
And before money traded for a lifetime of future memories, Dad had her loaded onto the trailer. The Wolseley light lit up with the adjoining headlights, timber dash told the stories of a richer and more connected past and a few bits of rust promised future repair. No ABS brakes or modern luxuries, just old fashion style and class.
But nothing was greater than my Grandparents getting a drive- a car they thought they may never see again, let alone take the wheel along the farm driveway to uncover the past. It’s not perfect, it’s not the exact car. Yet somehow, right now, that doesn’t really matter.
I struggled to meet the 4.30am starts that I’ve been pushing for, hitting 5am once to try and meet the set morning routine. Although steadily this week has been crammed with more and more activity- more and more stuff.
Somehow this week has seen a pinnacle of community activity as well. Tucker Patch to flesh out a new project, joining the Wingham Beef Week committee and then later joining up to the Wolseley Car Clubs. Giving back to the community remains dear to my heart. No expectations, no agendas, just the opportunity to do good and support great events.
So with that, it’s back to trying to beat the roosters crow, back to routines for grounding and hope. Back to the Sunday driver I can’t wait to have on the road and the history I can’t wait to recreate.