A
Stitch in Time Saves a '59
Story by
Lois Grace
There
are three men in my life: my husband,
Rob, my first born, Vernon (my '59 single
cab), and then there is Bogart, the
baby of the family. Bogie is my 1969
VW Bug.
Rob
knows I love him. Bogart knows I depend
on him. Vernon just knows that he is
about as close to human as one can get
and still be a Volkswagen. After beginning
his restoration, he is almost completed.
I took one of the last big steps left
and had him upholstered. Yes, he is
now stitched. He wasn't really that
bad in there, not really. He still had
the old brown vinyl seats. He still
sported the mahogany door panels and
kick panels my dad had installed almost
20 years before. The original door handles,
steering wheel, gearshift and knob,
and interior light were still in place.
Not bad when you consider what Vern
had been through on the OUTSIDE. Major
reconstructive surgery would be a mild
way of putting it. So, why not spruce
up the interior to match? He was, after
all, a show vehicle now, and must look
like one, inside and out. I had planned
to do this eventually anyway, but never
figured I'd ever get to this point.
I'd dreamed about what I'd do, if give
the choice of anything under the sun.
Bone stock? Full custom? Graphics? Killer
stereo? Actually, none of the above
seemed to fit the bill.
Bone
stock just seemed too sterile for the
handsome devil now living in my garage.
Full custom was silly too, because of
Vern's classic stock exterior. Ditto
for the graphics idea. A killer stereo
was out of the question, what with the
killer decibels that accompany a 36-horse
engine: I wouldn't be able to hear the
thing anyway, so why bother? So,
I ended up opting for what I consider
to be a sort of Volkswagen-Type-II-Deluxe-Single-Cab-Option
look, if they had had such a things
back in 1959. I selected my craftsman
for this job carefully, picked out some
vinyl and fabric, and turned Vernon
over to him for a week so he could make
it happen. I got exactly what I had
planned. What I hadn't counted on was
an odd, terrible sense of loss,
an awful let-down, after the work was
done. I know someone who calls this
feeling 'buyer's remorse'. This is the
same person who goes out, and, on a
whim one Sunday afternoon, buys a new
Mercedes 300SL and writes a check for
it. His is Buyer's Remorse. Mine I call
PTSD or Post Traumatic Stitch Disorder.
What
was wrong with me? Why couldn't
I be thrilled? It wasn't Glenn's
fault - he had done exactly what I wanted.
His work was superior in every way and
flawless. He was even German. I had
been right to choose him. So, what the
heck was going on? There was only one
answer to that question - my affliction
could only be Post Traumatic Stitch
Disorder. Yes, PTSD is what happens
when one is faced with the almost impossible
challenge of restoring a truck like
mine, and being able to have almost
anything one desires done to the inside,
chooses something one has had their
heart set on for years. Once chosen
and completed, this same person sees
the finished product and says something
truly brilliant, like, OH. It's so.......so......VINYL.
Yes,
I did this. I still can't believe it
was me. Poor Glenn, he just looked at
me as if I were a total stranger. It
wasn't that I didn't LIKE it. Vernon
looked great, he just looked DIFFERENT.
I wasn't expecting a grand transformation
- not really. At least not one this
profound. After all, this was the same
truck that had just barely recovered
from having both sides chopped out and
replaced with new ones. He had also
survived other extensive indignities
to his entire person, so nothing done
to him now could surprise me, right?
Well, I was surprised. Gone was the
tacky unpleated brown vinyl seat. Gone
were the mahogany door panels. Gone
too were the matching mahogany panels
on the roof and around the rear window
that my dad had labored so long and
hard to get to fit so right. In their
place now is the black and gray tweed
seat, with three-inch pleats. On the
doors are matching gray vinyl door panels,
with the same tweed inserts. The front
kickpanel is now gray vinyl. There is
even gray AutoTex headliner on the roof.
He is truly beautiful. I should have
been ecstatic, really. Well? I
was, sort of. I was glad Vernon now
looked as good on the inside as he did
on the outside. I was glad Glenn had
been able to visualize this as I had
planned it. But I sort of missed the
familiar brown look of the wood in there.
Sure, the wing windows had leaked and
the panels below that had started to
separate and looked stained. But I missed
(sort of) the SMELL of Vernon - the
years of old oil and grease, rotting
rubber, damp floorboards, and best of
all, the peculiar Volkswagen-only smell.
You know of this? Bogart has it too,
although he is only 20 years old. Vernon
now smells a little like a toy store
- all fresh paint and new vinyl. Will
that old familiar smell EVER come back?
Do I want it to?
There
is a happy ending to this story. I now
love Vern's new look. I finally came
to the realization that when you change
something you've lived with for over
20 years, it is bound to be a little
bit of a shock at first, no matter how
anticipated. I lived with it for a bit,
and am now totally satisfied. I took
Vern out for the first time since his
stitching to drive him in the Los Gatos
Christmas Parade last December. All
of Vern's club buddies got their first
glimpse of him then. Their enthusiasm
was contagious. So much so that when
we got home I even took the old interior
door panels and hung them on a nail
above his spot in the garage. I still
can't bear to throw them away, but at
least they are out of the way and not
right where they will remind me of what
Vern used to be - a sad old wrecked
truck, waiting to die. No, that's not
Vernon anymore. He now looks like who
he is - a distinguished older gentleman,
all dressed up in his Sunday best. He
looks clean and shiny and loved. I think
I can live with that.
