And the way I have of late, dear readers, been implicated in the procurement of a newer motor vehicle.
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And the relative luxury and predictability of the recent acquisition has heightened the memory of some my past, ahem, “problems with cars’”
And before I go any further, I want to claim the unofficial Maitland record for “most times run of petrol” - at least 100; and “most times run out of petrol in one day” – three!
A lamentable, but nonetheless remarkable statistic.
Mercifully, my liquid energy supply hasn’t dried up for some time, but there was a golden period, back in the early 90s, when I was untouchable in the “stupidly-running-out-of-petrol-stakes”.
As I recall, the routine disappearance of my propellant was the result of a perfect storm of factors: a deep and gripping existential malaise, a well defined and entrenched lack of funds, a series of exceedingly faulty fuel gauges, and a strange belief that each misadventure was, in fact, an adventure.
Yet, I learned to live with my condition and indeed became accomplished at the “art” of it all; many times I rolled, on empty and engineless, into the old XL servo near Jimmy O’Connor’s barber shop and said to the bloke with moustache - it was driveway service - “$3 worth please.”
I carried the necessary equipment: coke bottle funnel, plastic petrol container and an ash tray loaded with 5c pieces. I knew the petrol stations too; the now gone Caltex at Green Hills, the PP at Rutherford and the Mobil at the bottom of the hill at East Maitland were some of my preferred destinations.
My first conveyance was a small Toyota Corona which, alas, was not small enough to avoid being collected by an immense car-transport truck turning right into Victoria Street opposite the Mercury building, bound for George White’s.
I sat there, befuddled, listening to The Police playing Roxanne as the behemoth hoisted up the front of my, invisible-to-the-truck-car and dragged it down past Joe Henry’s spray painting operation.
Next came the Hillman ...
This was the car in which I really learned to drive - and around Telarah I would meander, delighting in the changing of gears, the undulations of the streets and thrill of being on my own, in my town, growing up …
However, despite the unhappiness I had with many of my subsequent buggies, I do have a fidelity for all of them - with the possible exception of the VW Type 3 Station Wagon, purchased at Weston and responsible for not only great anguish, but the complete extinguishment of my paltry funds.
On the bright side, the mechanical peccadilloes and ailments of my vehicles enabled me to meet most of Maitland’s finest motor technicians.
Frank O’Brien in Lee Street was legendary, as was Beacon Motors in Lorn, while Leo McDonald’s rustic HQ on the corner of Sharkies Lane, Glenarvon Rd and Belmore Rd had the appearance and atmosphere of a calm, bucolic car rehabilitation centre, which gave one a sense of optimism for the survival of one’s jalopy.
And there were of course the cars of my family and friends that I can still fondly recall: my brother’s blue, squeaky, doored HR Holden, Trev’s yellow Centura, Rod’s blue bug …
In all of these magnificent perambulators we cruised the still open High Street, bumped over the Morpeth Bridge, glided down Regent Street and curled around the old road to East Maitland, windows open, music on, smiling and living our lives here on the beautiful floodplain.
And strangely, they have been my companions - them and I, on the streets of our town ...
And so it goes.
Goodnight.
