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The 1941 Ford woody wagon was covered with vintage surf stickers. In order to retun it to it's "original" state, Dad scraped them off in my absence. Bummer. Or as he would say in his Long Island accent, bumma.

The car is mine, but it's not. My 89 year-old father purchased it on eBay. He is very knowledgable about things like that. When I saw it, I was thrilled, except for the flesh-colored paint job. It's growing on me. Like any good pop would do, he dumped the car into some kind of legal entity to reduce estate taxes. My sister and I own that company, and both of us want the woody. Not to be unfair, another one was purchased. Black. Not quite so original, it is being semi-restored. It will be georgeous, but the shiny ebony is so not me. It is unclear which one of us will get which.

I'm sure there will be no great love for me putting on significant mileage. Everyone knows that I am going on a road trip. They think I'm taking my beat-up pickup. The car is in the barn of the empty summer house. I'll have to tell the caretaker that I will be surprising them in Florida. I need the battery charged and the tank filled.

IBF will help me sneak it out. He can be the diversion.