It was always called ‘The Junk’. Long before I had ever visited Ben’s summer home, before I had met either Ben or Dave in high school, before Ben was born, even before Ben’s father was born, it was called ‘The Junk’. In fact, the powder blue and black model T was named ‘The Junk’ from the very moment it first turned a wheel, because that’s exactly what it was born of: junk.

Ben’s grandfather was an ambulance driver in the First World War. With this job came a myriad of responsibilities, including field doctor, nurse, getaway driver and on-the-fly mechanic. It was the mechanic aspect that caused 'The Junk' to come into being. The ambulances of WW1 were frequently Model Ts because they were cheap, easy to repair and very durable. These were all key features since the Geneva Convention did not come into existence until 1949. Thus, during WW1, ambulances and virtually anything else that moved, frequently took fire and as a result were either disabled or just plain blown up, unfortunate occupants included. Ben’s grandfather would pick up some of the parts of the ambulances that the army was no longer interested in and ship them back to his home in the U.S. So, every once in a while a parcel would arrive back in the states containing a slightly scorched seat or maybe a straight enough axle or perhaps a shrapnel pierced hood, each a singular greeting from some war-ravaged front in France.

With the passing of the war, Ben’s grandfather returned home to a conglomeration of various T parts. From those parts and a few others that he scavenged locally he pieced together a perfectly serviceable, if not cosmetically challenged Model T roadster. The roadster was christened with the truly apropos moniker: The Junk. The Junk was driven to the northwest corner of Connecticut and into North Meadows, their summer estate, where it became the town car. For forty years The Junk dutifully served as primary transportation of the estate, shuttling Ben’s grandfather, various family members and friends to town, the airport and all around that scenic corner of Connecticut.

Every spring Ben’s grandfather would roll The Junk from the barn, dust off the seats, clean out the mouse nests, fill the radiator, change the oil, fill the gas, mount the battery and prepare it for summer duty. Every autumn, he would just as carefully drain the gas and radiator fluid, remove the battery, throw some oil in the cylinders and prepare The Junk for winter storage. Such is the way it went for forty years.

In the winter of 1964, Ben’s grandfather passed on and the summer home was left to Ben’s father. Knowing nothing of cars and not being mechanically inclined, The Junk was replaced by a more modern summer car, which in turn was also replaced, and thus the normal cycle of American car ownership fell upon North Meadow. The Junk languished in the barn, its primary use being a play area for Ben and his siblings and later their children.

Never again turning a wheel or moving from the central spot in the barn, it just served as something to climb on and pretend to drive.

Dave Leonard had been down to North Meadow several times before I ever made the trip. He enjoyed several languid summer weekends with Ben, his wife Sheri and their children. Dave, being of a singular mechanical bent, was always curious about The Junk, but Ben said that it was dead so it wasn't worth the consideration or time. Dave didn't press the point. Then I started going vacationing with Dave and Ben. One night, over much wine under a warm August moon, Dave and I brought up the subject of The Junk. Ben repeated that it had not run since he was four and would probably never run again. Dave and I looked at each other and agreed that we didn't need to be hit with a tire iron to recognize a proper challenge.

The next morning, Dave was up well before I. By the time I had stumbled into the barn with coffee in hand, Dave had removed the plugs, thrown some oil in the cylinders, pulled the carb and was ministering to some well dried leather washers. I reconnoitered and proceeded to remove several large mouse nests from the trunk so that I could look at the gas tank. Locating the petcock I turned it, half expecting molasses thick varnish to flow, but no, the tank was dry. Even the filter was dry and rust free. A bit of gas was thrown in the tank and it drained clear. After thirty years there was no rust in the tank. We examined the rudimentary cooling system. It too was dry. The hoses were old but not cracked. We filled, drained and filled it again. Upon examination, we were surprised to find the spark plugs were lightly coated in oil and in fine shape. Dave and I looked at each other. This couldn't possibly be that easy. As we worked our way around the car we came to realize that The Junk was not broken; in fact, it had been simply and properly put to bed for a long, long winter’s nap. The nap just happened to last over thirty years.

Ben’s grandfather had put the car up for storage and, other than a few dried out bushings, the car was ready to run. Lacking a six volt battery, we stole a 12 volt battery from the garden tractor and attached it. Dave had called a T enthusiast friend of his who informed us that this would work as long as we remembered to use positive ground. Oh, and avoid using the lights, unless we didn't want to use them again. We pushed the hand crank into the front of the car and gave it a turn to see how badly the engine was frozen. To our astonishment, it turned quickly and easily. After installing the plugs, carb and various other parts, we pushed the beast out of the barn and into the sunlight for the first time in nearly half a century. The throttle linkage was still stuck, so Dave operated the throttle while I cranked it over. And over. And over.

Having convinced ourselves that men were of heartier stock back then, we set about proving that we were more resourceful. We towed the car to the top of the meadow, aimed her downhill, pushed in the clutch and bump started her. On the third bump, she caught and came to life. With a hiccup, a few large chuffs and a great cloud of smoke, The Junk let loose a roar that had not been heard for well over three decades. We let her warm up a bit and watched as a family of mice scurried out and dropped from the car as they fled from the fumes. Dave climbed behind the wheel while I stood on the running board and operated as the throttle man. We had a bit of a time figuring out exactly what the pedals did, but eventually first gear engaged with a grind and a lurch and we were off and running; that torquey four hammering away and us laughing as it bounced over the fields and up the driveway. Ben, his wife and children stood in awe.

We gave everyone rides, bucking and laughing all around the meadows and fields of the estate. I was the throttle man, giving it gas or backing it off as the pilot ordered. Dave drove and we sported one passenger in the seat and another one or two standing on the running boards. It was glorious. We broke for lunch and Dave and I returned to the task of making the car more usable. We fixed the balky throttle linkage (oddly it passes straight through the block to get to the carb), got the shift linkage operating somewhat smoothly and returned it to form where one person could operate the car.

I was the lucky person who set off on the maiden solo flight of The Junk in 32 years. Naturally, I needed a witness so I took Zip-loc, Ben’s Aussie shepherd as a passenger. I set off up the driveway and out to the road, with the intention of simply turning it around and coming back.

You’re familiar with the feeling of hitting the open road on a beautiful day in an open top car? That feeling of freedom, power and control of your destiny is sometimes overwhelming and on this day, as I reached the end of the half mile long driveway, I saw no reason to simply turn around and return home. Hell no, I had to see what this puppy would do. "Zip-loc," I said, "Let’s go for a drive!" I pulled out onto the road and let roar.

I had the wind in my hair, a pair of driving goggles on my face, a grinning golden beside me and a 19-something-or-others Model T in fine fettle and few brakes chuffing away under full throttle on the back roads of Connecticut. It was grand, wonderful and terrifically stupid. I did a couple speed runs and learned the limits of the braking system (on the order of the Flintstones) and eventually rationality did take over and I turned around to head back to the house. What I didn't realize was the turning radius of a Model T was comparable to that of your average double-wide mobile home. This combined with a still sticky throttle and I suddenly found myself stalled with the right front tire deep in a roadside ditch. I got out and surveyed the situation.

One of the nice things about T’s is that they are light. They also were made for a time where paved roads were the exception, rather than the rule. They have 28" wheels with big, easily gripped spokes on them. I yanked and pulled the T so that the rear joined the front in the ditch in the ditch and the car at least pointed in a straight direction. As I yanked on the spokes, Zip-loc took to the driver's seat to supervise. As I tugged and groaned, a station wagon slowed and an attractive blonde woman gaped at this absurd scenario at the side of the road. She stopped and rolled down the window and asked if she could help. I knew how silly it all looked and I was feeling a bit sheepish so I thanked her and said that I had it under control. I got the car straightened out, set the brake, set the throttle and yanked on the crank. The Junk fired right up without issue. I scooted Zip-loc over to the passenger seat, clambered aboard and bounced out of the ditch with a big smile and a wave to the oddly familiar woman who grinned as she sat and watched the entire episode.

As I returned to the house, Ben and Dave asked what happened. I told them that The Junk maxed out at about 45 or so and was rock steady, but that the brakes needed tending and the turning radius was abysmal. I also mentioned that I attracted the attention of quite comely young blonde woman whose face I could have sworn I had seen before.

Ben looked at me and said, "Did she look like Meryl Streep?"

I looked at him and said, "Yeah. I guess she did. Who was she?"

Ben smiled and said, "Probably Meryl Streep. She has a house a few doors down from here."

I looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. He looked at me and said "Really. And I bet you she was more impressed by you than you were of her."

I still think it was the dog.

Since Ben’s stay was coming to a close we decided to put The Junk back up for the winter. We parked her, drained her and prepared her for a much briefer winter’s slumber.