Papa’s Triumph

by Brandon Butcher

I’ve dreamt of writing the story of my Papa’s 1963 TR4 for years, but never did I think it would be against the backdrop of a wildfire.

My “Papa,” Jack Butcher, passed away in 2014 at the age of 88. Born in rural Kentucky alongside his sister Doris, Jack enlisted in the Navy at 15 and served in WWII aboard the USS Midway. It was during this time that he acquired an infamous tattoo of a Hawaiian woman whose ink, by Papa’s account, had the magical property of predicting rain.

After his service, Papa worked as a salesman for Singer Sewing Machines and eventually opened his own repair and sales business in Toledo, Ohio. It’s there, in Toledo, where my first memories of Papa’s Signal Red 1963 TR4 began.

Every summer, I flew out from Southern California to stay with Papa and Mimi, spending carefree childhood days getting seasick on Lake Erie, playing tennis and Rummikub, and, of course, tinkering on cars in Papa’s “warehouse.”

The warehouse was located on the outskirts of Toledo, a sprawling industrial space with big rolling doors, factory style lighting, shelves with stuff stacked ceiling high, and ample square footage for everything from vintage sewing machines to an assortment of gas-powered toys: mini bikes, rideable lawn mowers, and a host of British cars, including TR4s, TR6s, MGAs, and MGBs. It sounds fancy, but most of the cars didn’t run. Instead, they were there for tinkering, as “parts cars,” or trading leverage for something else Papa could fix up.

One of my favorite memories of Papa was his uncanny ability to barter. Whether it was a discount at the grocery store or trading a gutted MGB for two rideable mowers, he always seemed to make a deal—no matter where or what he was buying. Papa’s father wasn’t much of a presence in his life, and I think that absence shaped father and a loving grandfather. In the warehouse, he taught my dad and uncle (then kids) the sewing business, machine repair, and the ins and outs of small engines. It’s no surprise that my uncle would later spend his career at Dana Corporation and my dad would become an engineer. I sometimes wonder why they never combined their talents to build the next great American automaker.

Back to those summers in Toledo: a typical morning would find Papa wearing a smile and a USS Midway hat, toting me along for a discount breakfast, a senior coffee at McDonald’s, then heading out to the warehouse. With Papa close by, I hunted for frogs, explored the sewing machines, and tinkered with spare parts. Seemed like every summer, Papa had a new project: getting a bike, a lawnmower, or best of all, a car running just enough for me to take a spin around the property—or, when he wasn’t looking, down the farm roads.

But, time went by, and, as Papa began to age, it became clear that his days as a “snowbird” were coming to an end, and full-time Florida residency loomed. The Ohio warehouse, once a place of adventure, started to look more like a junkyard, and decisions were made to help him downsize. For our part, my cousins and I shipped Papa’s best-maintained car, a Signal Red 1963 TR4, to Altadena, California, where I was living with my parents. The idea that a classic British car would be sitting in our family garage, a piece of Papa’s legacy, was exciting. It felt like a part of Ohio and Papa was coming to us.

The TR4 appeared to be in decent shape when it rolled off the delivery truck, despite a rusted crossbar, and was running just well enough for me to sneak it out after work and cruise from our house in the Altadena foothills up along the winding ridges of the Angeles National Forest with the top down. To my mind, the car felt like it was made for California, and dreams of a full restoration started to build. Papa would be proud, I thought.

But adulthood intervened. My dad was still working, and I was falling into the rhythm of a full-time career. Soon, I met my wife—without the bait of the TR4—and we started our own family. Around that time, Papa died at age 88. Saying goodbye was bittersweet, but with his passing, we welcomed a son, appropriately named Jack Butcher, born in 2015, and ultimately passed the affectionate name “Papa” on to my dad.

Despite the excitement of owning a classic British roadster, playtime became scarce. Car repairs were put on the backburner, fixes were neglected, and a once small project list grew into a decade-long endeavor. And the truth was, I—like most millennials—lacked the hands-on automotive skills my dad and Papa shared.

Then, last year, a new phase of the TR4 restoration began. My dad retired, and after some much-needed rest, dove back into the project. Every time we opened the hood, fond memories of Papa resurfaced: Alligator clip wiring, a coat hanger replacing a carburetor spring, gauges and knobs from other British cars at the warehouse. Papa would do anything to get a bike, car, or mower running so we could enjoy it when we were kids. Apparently, he’d done the same with this TR4.

With my dad as lead mechanic, a substantial restoration soon took shape. He watched YouTube videos, consulted with Moss Motors, attended TR club meetings at Bob’s Big Boy, and perused British car forums. Together, we began replacing wiring, hoses, the alternator, water pump, the clutch and brake cylinder, hoses, an electric fan, timing chain, and starter, just to name a few! My two boys, Jack, 9, and Cooper, 6, often sat in the front seat and pretended to steer “Papa’s red car” while we worked. I think my dad loved getting his hands dirty again, but I also think he enjoyed working on something that reminded him of his own father.

Then, a few months ago, after nearly ten years of the car sitting idle, my dad and I turned the ignition and fired up the TR4. We stood together in the garage, both of us smiling, listening as the Standard wet inline-four roared. Sure, after a few starts, there was a faint knocking, but it seemed as though things were finally coming together.

Then, on January 7th, 2025, everything changed. Days before, Los Angeles forecasters began to warn of 60-80 miles per hour winds—stronger than we’d seen in years. That morning, I phoned my dad to check in. He said the morning winds had been rough but that power had returned, and things seemed fine. But, by afternoon, the wind had built; it began to pull down trees and power lines. Later that evening, when I called my dad again, his tone had shifted. He told me that my brother-in-law had just arrived at their house, along with urgent warnings to evacuate as a wildfire had started in nearby Eaton Canyon. Together with my mom, they loaded up what valuables they could, grabbed their dog, evacuated an elderly neighbor, and then headed to my home a couple of miles down the hill.

We were anxious that night, uncertain of what would unfold. We’d been through wildfires before in Altadena, living at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains, but nothing had ever threatened our home. Then, a call came from the father of my son’s classmate that would change everything. Alex, a local policeman, reported that his nearby family home had burned to the ground. As an officer, he had access to the burn area, and he offered to check on our place. Minutes later, he called back: my parents’ house, my childhood home, was gone.

As of writing, it’s been a week since the Eaton Fire, which burned more than 22 square miles and destroyed or damaged more than 9,400 structures in Altadena, California. Together with my family, we’re grieving a community, neighborhood, and home we had known for 30 years—the photos left behind, the heirlooms lost, the walls and rooms that will never stand again.

It feels trivial to mourn the loss of a car, but Papa’s TR4 has stuck with me in the intervening days: the bump of the hood, the dent on the fender, the SU carbs. But, even more vividly, what lingers with me now is the way “Papa’s red car” was more than a car. It was a bridge between generations, a place to teach, to be together, to laugh, cry, and find joy. It was never about a value, it was about the experience, the camaraderie, how we had found a common love, and experienced community with fellow Triumph owners. About the magical way an old roadster had taken us all back in time. That car is lost now, taken in the flames, but in so many ways, the story lives on. The story of how a simple machine can stoke endless memories. Memories of my Papa, my dad, my boys, and me.