Symbols and Memories

By Dave Ramstad

I wear the ‘colors’. I believe it’s compulsive. Dudley Haines, writing from Juneau for the February Healey Highlights, states a fact known to all of us. The bonafide Austin-Healey lover is distinguished by the trait that he must have his beloved machine somewhere nearby at all times. Many others have proclaimed the same observation. Curious nervous quirks begin to appear should we go on too long without our ‘fix’. You know what I’m talking about.

But managing to sustain a lifestyle in which one’s Healey can always be close at hand is not that easy. So we turn to facsimiles or colors or symbols. One cat installed an absolutely perfect l/24th scale likeness of his cherished 100-Six on the dashboard of the family sedan.  I’m not kidding. And many keep snapshots of their mechanized mistresses (please forgive the sexism, ladies; I know that you regard your Healeys even dearer than many of the guys) in the old wallet next to the family. So they can pop ’em out at the slightest provocation to dazzle lesser mortals. A local yokel Cascade Region fanatic (who shall go nameless, but will be instantly recognized) has affixed a shiny, well-preserved Healey Hundred grille over his living room fireplace mantel. Very dangerous, if you ask me. An open provocation to that crazed restorer who stalks the subdivisions searching for that very item!

Oddball hats are all the rage in America today. The True Believer of this category goes no where without his treasured chapeau. Consider the once strictly juvenile ballcap. Now, today, this is no ordinary ballcap. It is festooned with no less than 15 pounds of Healey dub patches, AH wings, 8 or 10 owners meet pins, several rude sayings and the obligatory Union Jack. And then, of course, we have the t-shirts; having once been merely the upper half of the male’s unmentionables… now the core of an entire universe of apparel. But we needn’t go into that need we?

Cutesy hats are not my thing, and everyone knows that t-shirts are not wearable year around in western Washington. (Who said they’re marginal even in summer? Truthfully, our goosebumps do get a lotta exercise in those unusual 55° July days!) At the risk of compromising my image as a lifetime nonconformist however, I shall admit to owning a couple of the former, and a drawer full of the latter.

No, my thing is The Jacket Patch. Bright, colorful patches are tastefully stitched on everything I own. If it isn’t the Pacific Centre logo, it’s the Healey wings, if not the wings, then the lovely Cascade Region design, or perhaps that nostalgic old BMC symbol. No matter what the season, I’m covered. The winter parka, my beloved navy issue p-coat (I paid my dues, folks), field jacket for spring or fall, a couple of wool shirts, a few flannels, and so forth. They all proclaim the faith. Something’s gotta be done about the durability of today’s patches though. The club crest makes a mere half dozen trips thru the Maytag on my skivvies and comes out all puckered up. The patch, not the skivvies. How do you think that makes me feel at our annual club slumber party? Humiliated is not the word for it there is only one solution. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Kathy will simply have to go back to school for a degree (any degree) so that the completely understandable costs of dry-cleaning my underwear can be supported. I mean, what’s more important here gang? Yeah!

It is difficult to carry the ‘colors’ into one’s office or workplace to a real satisfying degree. Ever compulsive, I give it a hell of a go. Now, I spend a large chunk of each weekday slaving over a hot drawing board conjuring up floor beams and body frames for the Boeing 747. Can you visualize that drawing board? It is about 4 x 7, a size according to some drones suitable only for unrolling structural engineering drawings. How unimaginative. I, on the other hand, see it as the logical display base for Healey art. The entire history of two decades of happy ownership is revealed to all. Truth to tell this pulchritude merely occupies the board’s border- career objectives require that I maintain some space for airplane drawings. The sacrifices one makes, what?

This display causes some comment, as you might imagine. A multitude of dusty old memories pour forth from passers-by. Have you noticed? Everyone in America over the age of 30 once owned a Healey… or if they did not actually own one, their brother/ father/ roommate/ girlfriend owned one. And although the actual model is not known, the car was always red. I don’t know why Jensen Motors didn’t just spray those damn bodies red and forget any other hues. The Healeys in peoples’ memories are always red. Unbelievable!

A total stranger stopped frozen in his tracks while passing my board this week. It may have been my cherished, full color portrait of Soupy Sales (doing ‘The Mouse…who could forget that dance?), but I rather believe it was the Healey art. The point is, he was struck immobile. When he could again move his jaw (it had dropped a good six inches!) a veritable avalanche of Healey stories poured forth. ‘I remember the time…, Have you ever…, Did that happen to you too?, …No bull?’. Some of you have experienced this. After several of these sessions with strangers many of these cherished vignettes take on similarity. As a matter of fact many enthusiasts claim that these little dramas bore the bacon off them; not me… I never tire of the spontaneous joy, nostalgia and rapport they produce. Stranger hereafter referred to as Jesse, became so stimulated with the rush of sweet memories, that before long he felt so compelled to share with me his finest recollection. El Numero Uno!

The Scene: Seattle’s University District a hot summer night many years ago and well after the witching hour, bathed in the luminous brilliance of a full moon. (You say ‘Impossible, it never gets over 65° in Seattle.’ How about 96° in July ’81?)

Our stalwart friend Jesse has just rolled onto University Bridge, southbound, after a refreshing cruise around the shores of Lake Union. He reposes behind the substantial wheel of his Mark II tri-carb, a glistening Colorado Red example whose top is of course stowed this steaming night Accelerating impressively up through the lower cogs, the roadster booms along at 2500 revs in third. That rich distinctive six cylinder exhaust resonance that only a Healey can produce bounces back off the bridge’s steelwork. Is there a lovelier sound?

Another sound, strikingly similar, reaches our friend’s ears. At the precise moment that Jesse’s mind begins to wonder whether his perception has gone askew, the answer appears. A seductively sexy-looking 3000, wearing a smooth white lacquer finish, rolls up alongside, also topdown, also booming along nicely in third. Apparently this beauty approached the bridge from Roosevelt Way, a major north Seattle thoroughfare. Rolling along almost as one now, the speeds of the two vintage three-liters synchronize, and that terrific exhaust resonance is doubled. But wait. It not only doubles, but the two resonances commence to mingle, intertwines, and then actually pulsates. An acoustic phenomenon known only to World War II fighter pilots and a few privileged Austin-Healey drivers occurs. It has been described as many things- often as a ‘beat-note’- but in the opinion of this writer mere words cannot do the experience justice. Quite incredible!

This pair of Healey handlers, still total strangers, become so exhilarated by what they feel and hear and share that involuntary grins instantly split their faces. The sensation of power and glory are indescribable. For just these few moments as the pair roll across University Bridge, that rare instant rapport between strangers burns bright, and the knowledge of sharing a matchless experience charges them both. The grins spread even wider, two right arms shoot skyward in a mutual clenched fist salute, and a pair of spontaneous shouts of joy burst forth. The bridge’s end is finally reached, and the two Healeys, one red, one white, part ways to seek their own individual destinations.

One hot summer night in Seattle. Two Healeys. Two strangers. But a memory never to be forgotten.

If you have an interesting story to share with our readers, send it in! Dave Ramstad of Everett, Washington will receive a $25.00 Moss Gift Certificate for his contribution to our newsletter.