The following column, by former local columnist Alice Cundiff, is reprinted by popular request from the July 5, 1995 edition of the Olds Albertan. Cundiff passed away Dec. 11, 2018 at age 83. This story was so well received that it ran in both the Canadian and American editions of Reader's Digest in November 1996.
For as long as I can remember, my mother owned a car. The first one came into her possession under rather unusual circumstances.
A renter who was short of cash gave her an Essex car which she traded for a 1927 Model T Ford in better condition and valued at $35 second hand.
"I was so excited I shook," mother often recalled of the day that wonderful car was registered in her name.
Her last and newest car, a 1962 Pontiac, was purchased in 1964. She drove it until the morning of the day in March 1986 when she suffered a stroke that took her from us in just 14 hours.
Lizzie, as we affectionately named the Model T, faithfully took us to our annual church camp meeting and our summer cabin at Gull Lake.
Loaded to the hilt with bedding, clothes, food and whatever paraphernalia we needed for our stay, we travelled trouble-free for many years.
One summer we made the journey from Lacombe to the far north of the province to visit my brother on his summer job.
Lizzie came complete with side curtains, so travel in inclement weather was no problem.
In the winter the battery was kept warm behind our coal-burning kitchen stove, and with a pan of hot ashes set under her to warm her insides, Lizzie started without complaint. Block heaters were unheard of in those days.
On occasion we drove to Red Deer for an afternoon of shopping. The trip in itself was a major event and the hill just outside the city added to our fun. We challenged Lizzie on each return trip to make it up the hill without mother having to shift into low gear.
Of course, no vehicle is infallible and finally the time came when Lizzie needed an overhaul.
To have the work done at a garage was much too expensive and we couldn't bear the thought of being without our beloved car, so mother, then in her mid-40s, decided to do the job herself.
She was born with extraordinary mechanical ability. Her friends were often amazed by her uncanny knowledge of what to tighten or turn or tap lightly to make an otherwise obstinate car start.
Sitting in her backyard was the opportunity of a lifetime to put this talent to the test. She received little encouragement and almost no one believed she could do it. But since Lizzie was out of commission anyway, what harm could she do by trying? She had already made some minor repairs and replaced a low band.
One of the most skeptical was our neighbour, Joe, a licensed mechanic.
"You'll never get it back together," he told her.
His doubting only made her more determined to prove him wrong.
Every afternoon for a week, mother quickly washed the lunch dishes, donned her work clothes and went to work on old Lizzie.
She dismantled the motor, taking special notice where each piece belonged. Nuts, bolts and screws were sorted into containers. It was absolutely essential that each one be put back in its proper place.
She didn't mind the grease under her fingernails or the smell of motor oil strong in her nostrils. This was a labour of love and the grimy condition of her clothes was not important.
Fortunately, she was able to afford the parts she needed by making small regular payments at a local garage.
Mr. Landry, the garage owner, was both amused and skeptical. There was no doubt she knew what she needed, but like Joe, he wondered if the car would run when she was finished.
Bewildered and disbelieving faces peered from passing cars. Little did they know the mastery that was taking place behind the caragana hedge. Curious friends dropped by to inquire what, if any, progress was being made.
"Do you think it will run?" "Do you know what you're doing?" The questions, often accompanied by a tone of cynicism were brushed aside.
Excitement gripped us the day the new spark plugs were installed, the final step of the operation. There were no parts left over.
The crucial moment had arrived. In a matter of seconds, the burning question would be answered.
"Here goes," said mother as she settled into the driver's seat. "Stand back in case the pieces fly!" she warned jovially.
Christine and I watched silently. Our breath caught in our throats as she adjusted the gas lever, pulled out the choke and stepped on the starter.
Joe watched apprehensively from the far side of his garden. An amazed expression of "I don't believe it!" registered on his face when the motor turned over and ran perfectly.
"I did it!" mother said, her face beaming as we clapped and cheered. We children believed all the time she could.
That evening, bursting with pride and waving proudly to our friends, we went for a drive to further prove that Lizzie was fully recovered from her traumatic experience.
After giving us several more years of reliable transportation, Lizzie was sold for the fabulous price of $75.
Mother owned other cars over the years. There was the lime green one which in her words was, "nothing but trouble."
Her grandchildren thought the rust one was the best car in the entire world. A couple more left less indelible impressions on my mind.
Driving was one of mother's greatest pleasures and last claim to independence.
Always generous in the use of her cars, she took us on many wonderful picnics and often enjoyed the countryside with a handicapped friend.
In later years when the seniors' lodge was her home, she chauffeured the ladies to the mall for shopping and lunch.
Each car possessed its own merit and importance. Others were newer and more streamlined, but somehow none was as loved or held in such high esteem as Lizzie, the beginning of it all.
