This is a short story of a friend of a friend who lives in my town, of a Miata named Martha and a son's love for his father.
A son’s love for his father and a Miata named Martha.
“When I was a kid, whenever I'd ask him (my father) what his dream car was, he always said he just wanted a little red MG. But he never bought one, which is odd, because by mid-life he easily could have. I think he didn't because he was a banker, and bankers are practical people...they'd never buy something that spent more time in the shop than on the road.
One day, when he was much older and was just taking care of my sick mom full-time, I went up to see him and found a red Miata sitting in the garage. He hadn't bothered to tell me about it, but it made perfect sense. What is a Miata but a banker's MG? It's tiny and all about the chassis but it doesn't break down.
Mom and dad were high school sweethearts. When she died, I wondered if he'd make it six months without her. He proved me wrong. Just over 7.
When he died, I found it was the one thing of his I really wanted. It almost never moves, because it's not here to be a car. It's just what I take out when I need to talk to Dad. I'm rarely alone in a car an hour without feeling the old man sitting next to me anyway. A couple times a year, spring and fall (when real convertible weather hits), I take it west into the mountains and find the twisty roads and don't talk to anyone all day.
Otherwise, it's just been something to loan to SWMBO when she needed it, and a convenient first few driving lessons for my daughter because a glorified go-kart is a way to ease into driving.”
The Miata’s name is Martha. She is named after the Mom/Wife that passed.
