Life with a Scamp, Part 2

by Lois Kemp

Our move to the Cleveland area agreed with Scamp at first, although soon after our arrival I got a foreshadowing of what was to come. I had parked Scamp in a lot, and Martin and I had gotten out. Two strangers approached me, a man and a woman, wondering how I had managed to keep Scamp in such good shape. They had a relative of Scamp's, a Plymouth that was one or two years younger, but which sadly looked much older than Scamp. When they learned we had only recently moved to the area from the "south,” they exchanged knowing smiles and just told me that I'd find out what they meant in a couple of years. "No," I thought, "Scamp will never have that rusted, worn appearance."

The winters were not as bad as I had feared they might be. Although it snowed a bit every day, the roads were kept well plowed and well salted, making it possible to get around fairly easily all the time. It was the salt, however, that was Scamp's undoing. In Philadelphia, undercoating had been helpful, but in Cleveland, total rust-proofing was a necessity. We realized too late the corrosive effect of the salt on Scamp's skin. His engine was wonderful, but, to our dismay, after three years of Cleveland winters, Scamp started to resemble that shabby relative of his.

I took him to a specialist. The man explained to me quietly, kindly, that what I had was a ten-year-old car, registering nearly 100,000 miles on its odometer. He couldn't, in good faith, do the cosmetic repairs that I requested. He was sure Scamp was going to start to fall apart mechanically at any minute. I went home determined to get a second opinion.

Meanwhile, we were preparing for a spring trip to our relatives. Martin was going on five, and Rebecca, two. We optimistically purchased new tires despite the fact that Scamp was now showing some symptoms of transmission problems. We felt that after nearly 100,000 miles, this was totally justified. Bob and the mechanic decided that we could get this one more trip out of the old transmission and then wrestle with the decision of whether to replace the transmission or replace the car. I knew what my vote would be.

A freak spring snowstorm caused us to need our winter jackets and boots, in addition to all the child and baby paraphernalia we had to pack into the car. At our first stop, visiting Bob's mother, I purchased both children's entire spring wardrobes in the children's store I had been accustomed to using when we had lived in the area. These new purchases had to be added to the carload.

We went on to my parents, who had relocated to northern Virginia. We decided we would return home a different way and drive through West Virginia. We were tired of our usual route and thought this would add variety and interest to our trip. Did it ever!

We realized that we would be very near The Greenbrier, a resort that we had heard was magnificent. We decided we wanted to see what was so special about it. I looked it up in our AAA Tourbook. It cost $250 to stay overnight, certainly well out of our price range, but well within our curiosity range.

We approached the entrance to the grounds. A guard stopped us and asked our intentions. He could tell by looking at our mode of transportation that we were not guests. We said that we merely wanted to look at what we had heard was such a beautiful place. He eyed Scamp deprecatingly and made us promise that we would drive through quickly and then leave the premises.

It was very shortly after this incident that Scamp started having real transmission problems. "Don't worry," Bob reassured me, "I've been planning for this. I've got lots of tricks up my sleeve." He used them all in quick succession, as Scamp's situation deteriorated. We were driving on a hilly, secondary road, one of the treats and charms of going through West Virginia. We didn't even notice telephone poles, which was not a good sign, as we were certain we would soon be forced to stop and try to call AAA.

It was just after three when we reached the top of a hill and Scamp stalled. We coasted downhill into a small parking lot. We were, miraculously, at the only store for miles around. It had just closed for the weekend, but its owners lived in the building and graciously allowed us in. Our second bit of good fortune was that just two miles down a road perpendicular to the parking lot was the only mechanic in a 25-mile radius. The store owner called him, and we left.

Scamp started on the first try, as he had every single time over the past ten years, but alas! We quickly realized that he could only go in reverse, and even though there were no hills to negotiate on this trip, we felt it too risky to drive two miles on an unknown road in reverse. The store owner called the mechanic, who immediately came in his tow truck.

He examined Scamp. He confirmed what we knew: Scamp needed a new transmission. Our location, however, posed some unusual problems. It was Friday afternoon; he would not be able to get a replacement transmission until Monday and then he'd need time to install it. Were we aware that the only place to stay "for miles around" was the Greenbrier? The transmission would cost $500. (We knew this was reasonable, as we'd priced it in Cleveland.) He again gently pointed out what we already knew: our car was rusted through in spots, and weak. It was going to fall apart before its engine completely died.

He had a proposition to make. He would pay us $100 for our car. He would tow it, and us, to his house. The children and I could wait there while he drove Bob to the nearest city to rent a car to take us back to Ohio.

I started to cry. Perhaps Scamp had arranged this so that we would be spared the agonizing decision-making process of what to do with him when we got home. Perhaps he died of embarrassment brought about by the rudeness of the guard at the Greenbrier. True to his nature, Scamp had gotten us to this, the only place in the area where we could find help, before he let himself give up. I knew that the only real choice we had was to take the mechanic up on his offer.

He had a good name, Al Martin. My husband and I thought this was not some strange coincidence. An Al had helped us at the beginning of our relationship with Scamp, and now an Al would help us at the end.

Scamp got towed for the first, and last, time. I held my first (and last) $100 bill. (We were to use it a few days later as a down payment on our next car.) Mrs. Martin was extremely nice. She gave the children snacks (I couldn't eat) and let them watch "The Incredible Hulk" while we waited for Bob and her husband to return from the car rental place. That turned out to be more of an ordeal than anticipated; the renters didn't want to rent cars for one-way trips, as no one brought cars to leave with West Virginia as a one-way destination. They finally decided they could part with a tiny car that was missing its outer gas cap. In a way, I was glad for this because I had to devote my thinking to consolidating our car contents and fitting it into a minuscule space.

I broke down when I had to say good-bye to Scamp. I felt as though I were leaving a part of myself in West Virginia. Al Martin was in great spirits, cheerfully informing us that he had great plans for Scamp -- piece by piece. I realized that Scamp was going to supply donor organs for other cars and hoped that parts of him would lead long lives.

As we left, I remembered a bumper sticker that a former student, who was from West Virginia, had shown me. It read, "WEST VIRGINIA -- ALMOST HEAVEN." I guess that was an appropriate place to leave Scamp.

May he rust in peace.