Ladies and Gentlemen:
I only knew Dick in cyber space, a few private notes about MGBs and so on,
and his surprising recitations of poetry. But, he was on my mind today as my
no.2 son and I rolled the Magnette out for a fifty-mile trip a couple of
counties away to visit my father, who, at age ninety-two, is the last
surviving member of his generation.
The weather was perfect, about 75F, and with that haziness that the Ozarks
is so adept at conjuring up. We crossed Beaver Creek at the Kissee Mills
Landing and climbed up onto the ridges above the White River Valley.
A street rod convention had been held over the weekend on Lake Taneycomo and
we met a few of those wonderful contraptions on the highway as they were
beginning their several ways home. They everyone waved or flashed headlamps
at us and we returned the favor. The only British iron we encountered was a
late-model Jag saloon with out-of-state tags that was seemingly in a rush to
quit the hill country before the day could wear on and it did not return our
proffered headlight salute.
We traversed blue highways all the way to our destination, cutting through
wooded hills and crossing numerous valleys on our way. After a warm visit
with our family, we found our way back home to the White River and stopped
at Shadow Rock Park in Forsyth to walk the pathways and toss bread to the
local Canada Geese. We inspected the reconstructed log cabins and smokehouse
at the park and I was reminded that the main cabin had been removed from our
100 acres some thirty years ago. Peering through the front window into the
dark cabin my little one spied the gowned woman's dress form in the corner
of the parlor and thought it a ghost.
As we sped back home in the twilight with the cool breeze rushing through
the open windows, bringing with it the scent of newly-mown hay from the
valley fields, I tried to remember why these old cars were so important to
me. I glanced over at my young one and he was making jokes to himself and
laughing an inscrutable laugh. I elected instead to remember that--not to
try to understand it--just to burn it into my memory until my senses were
steeped with the memories of this day. I hope I won't forget it soon and I
hope that we won't forget that Dick probably savored similar rides as well.
Regards,
David F. Darby
Interior Highlands, Missouri USA
http://www.mgb.bc.ca/mgz/
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