He who must not be named

I'm quite into the whole flow of the seasons and the community lifestyle now in Los Gatos. It's been a bit weird feeling that I belong somewhere after so long not. (I think the last time was 1989 in Whiteparish in Wiltshire). Each season brings another event for the children and therefore their parents. June heralds the end of the school term and the end of the baseball season. Each year there has been an end of season party where the kids get trophies and coaches get thanked. This year was no exception, except it was a bit different.
One of the coaches had organized this years party at his father-in-laws house. It was to be a pool party and as luck would have it Fiona got sick that evening so I ended up taking Alexander myself.

The house was big and so was the pool. Having deposited Alexander in said pool I looked around to find that there were no Dads to be found.
"They're in the garage looking at the cars." one of the wives told me. "You should go down there."
So not wanting to be the only guy by the pool, I decided to do just that.

The garage like the house was big and wasn't so much a garage as a museum for half a dozen old sports cars each lovingly cossetted with its own electric blanket to keep it at just the right temperature.
For those of you who know me, you'll know I don't do old cars. IMHO The infernal combustion engine is a dirty, noisy, inefficient kludge that is long overdue for replacement with something better and each time something better in the shape of automobile technology comes along we should celebrate by taking the previous lot of technology and putting it a crusher!

I guess those interminably long childhood trips up and down the UK in the family Ford Cortina wondering if it would breakdown have left their mark. It didn't break down often but when it did we were left stranded at the side of the road which isn't something you forget as a kid. My father took to tying heather onto the radiator grill before we set off, a practice that is now followed by certain Turkish airlines who sacrifice camels in front of their new planes for good luck.

So I don't really get a lift (pun intended) when I look at an old car, even if it is lovingly polished and gleaming. I've owned old cars, their crap!

Still I managed to say "Ooh" and "Aah" at the right moments and fake my enthusiasm in the herd of dads the were being led round by the son-in-law of the owner. But where was the owner I enquired?
"He will not be joining us. He had another engagement." I was told, and for sure one of the electric blankets lay alone on the floor with no car for it to keep warm.

However, He was with us in spirit at least adorning the walls on posters and the front covers of magazines. Here He was in a fast car on a salt lake and here He was on the front cover of a car magazine with a car He had built himself. He had driven the son-in-law all the way from Oakland to Los Gatos in this car which apparently was a long way. He owned objed'art such a childs tricycle made out of a giant wooden revolver. I was sure He also must have a fridge full of chocolate watches, but we didn't get so to see these. Throughout the evening we were treated to many annecdotes about He by He's son-in-law who simply could not bring himself to speak his name lest it be sullied by the company which he kept: ordinary folk whose kids played baseball together and whose in-laws didn't have big houses, old cars or tricycles that looked liked hand guns.

My father-in-law is called Bob and I'm proud to call him that!