We broke down once along the Taconic Parkway in New York State and, as a man it was my job to get out, grab some tools, scan—and ignore—the repair manual, and have us back on the road lickety split.
But in fact, Cathy grabbed the tools, followed the manual, and had the car purring lickety split. Well, it was an original Beetle, so ‘purring’ isn’t the right word. Chugging, maybe?
Photo by Daniel J. Schwarz
I don’t know what Cathy thought but it probably wasn’t lost on her that wasn’t too interested in how things got fixed. This complacence seemed reasonable to me then but now I’m surprised she didn’t start the motor and drive off without me.
The good new is, that complacency about tinkering with my inner workings didn’t last. The bad news? Being a lousy mechanic, I’ve been working on it now for about fifty years. If only I’d had Cathy all those years, with her little wrench and her step-by-step instructions, pulling me over occasionally and tightening my belts.
Fortunately, I now have a group of mechanics that meets every week for exactly this purpose. None of them are trained engineers, few could be trusted even with Cathy’s screwdriver. And, more’s the pity, none of them look anything like Cathy.
But somehow they keep me on the roads, keep my motor purring—well, perhaps purring isn’t the right word. Growling, maybe?
Katherine ‘Cathy’ Barnes (1980). Color has been added to this black-and-white
professional headshot by GeminiAi
I miss Cathy’s little car: its simplicity. Its little-engine-that-could persistence. Its pitiful four-on-the-floor gear box. And its weird front windows that took three arms to open.
As for the driver… well, the driver came fully loaded and carried her own tools.
Dan Kempner, Executive Editor, MDI Legacy Magazine
Katherine ‘Cathy’ Barnes (1980) Photographer Unknown.
Color added by GeminiAi
