General Tojo

 

     It was early spring in 1983.  Random patches of dirty ice and snow still littered the ground. The weather was a bit prickly but threatening to submit to the incoming sunshine.  A 13 year old Howie Grace stood there, on the Northwest corner of 11th and Main in Keokuk Iowa. Jaw agape, unblinking, immobile.  Staring, just staring at what had to be the most perfect piece of muscle that Detroit had ever produced.  It was Henry Ford's favorite shade of black.  429 Cubic inches of horses stuffed under the massive hood of a 1969 Thunderbird. A leather interior with all the fixins that were available to the space age driver were protected on either side by Suicide doors... IT HAD SUICIDE DOORS!  Retractable headlights rounded out the incredibly stylish front end... I was awestruck.  This moment, this vehicle sitting on that used car lot that I cut through every day on my walk to school, which had materialized, overnight, with the mind bending price of $500.00... That vehicle started my boyhood love affair with the American Automobile.  The look on my face that morning, late for School, standing there staring at that machine, had to be one of complete wonder and admiration.

     That moment started what for me, probably amounts to a typical teen boys fascination with cars. It waxed and waned over the years.  The cooler cars on my list of "must drives" or 'must haves" were perpetually out of my financial reach. This was exacerbated, I am sure by personal problems in my own life, including struggles with substance abuse.  By the time I was in my late 40's I had been struggling with a battle with alcohol for nearly a decade.  I had given up all ideas of things like sporty cars in favor of Canadian Whiskey and imported wine.  But after nearly a decade of fighting, I surrendered.  I went looking for help, and I found it. With a lot of help and support, I got myself clean and sober.

   Almost two years into my sobriety, my best friend: Kevin, noted to me that I probably needed something more productive to do with all my free time now, that didn't involve World of Warcraft.  By this point in my life, I had finally managed to start putting a little money aside . My appreciation for cars had come to encompass imported vehicles as well, specifically the Japanese variety, more specifically roadsters.  Kevin knew, I had been harboring a desire to purchase another Miata almost since the moment I had sold my first one almost a decade earlier.  I had given it up in favor of focusing more energy on my drinking activities.   Kevin suggested to me that "I really should find a way to reward myself for getting my shit straight".  And the hunt for the new project commenced.

Day One

    I found it, several months later.  I had looked at probably 30 or 40 different cars.  Nothing was "right".  I had criteria.  It HAD to be 1990-1993.  No power steering.  No anti lock brakes.  No power windows.  Hell, if it didn't have retractable headlights, it wasn't a "real roadster".  I wanted a go-cart, wrapped in tin foil and I found it in Bradenton.  I pulled up to the house with Melissa in the passenger seat.  As I pulled up outside the house, I looked at her and said "this is it"  She said "you haven't even looked at it yet.   I pointed to the 24 year old owner of the car.  He was standing in the driveway, soaked from the water of the wash, lovingly, carefully wiping the hood down with a cloth diaper.  I said "If that's the way he's taking care of this car, I don't need to see it. I already know everything I need to about it"  I paid his asking price of $3900 for a 30 year old car with 165 thousand miles on it, and drove it back to the house, where the transmission promptly locked up.

     Fast Forward a couple of years.  My fingerprints and my signature are all over this car. It got a name: "General Tojo" (because Dukes of Hazzard) and it got as much love and attention as Melissa would tolerate.  My fingers have touched nearly every surface of this car.  It has been completely disassembled and reassembled numerous times in the driveway. Every light works.  Every latch works.  Every part of the car works pretty much as it did the day it left the factory. In some cases, better than the factory.  There is an engine management system on a laptop that lives behind the passenger seat.  That computer allows for on the fly adjustments of the entire engine even while the car is being driven. Performance parts and a beefy upgrades to the suspension put this little Hair Dressers car at a slick blistering 98 Horsepower that will eat you alive in the bendies.  (And no, if YOU call the General a hair dressers car, I will beat the shit out of you with my purse)

     Hours and Days have been spent researching and integrating just the right modifications, repairs and in some cases upgrades, that will make the car unique, while keeping it as close to stock as I can. I have spent countless hours staring into the lost distance at junkyards across the country looking for an exact bolt or part, and in most cases, I left empty handed.  But sometimes I find gems. Don't ask me about Miatas or The General unless you are prepared to sit down with two cups of coffee and lose a couple of hours of your life you will never get back.  I am not going to get into numbers, but I will say this: If I die tomorrow, please do NOT let Melissa sell The General for what I have "told her" I have invested in it---get it appraised first!  Melissa now has her own Miata, and we belong to a local group of pretty cool Hairdressers who get together once a month and talk about coil overs and forced induction.  Melissa is even learning the lingo.

Melissas 2003 special edition blue mica Miata

     You might ask, why? Why do it? Most of the time, I probably couldn't give you what might equate to a rational response to that question, beyond "It's more productive than drinking, albeit, probably more expensive".  But yesterday, I got my answer.  I am used to answering questions about the car.  It looks good, it sounds good, and its an antique after all.  But yesterday, I was driving home from doing some shopping, top down, wind blowing gracefully through my greying mop of hair.  Mannish Boy by Muddy Waters was slowly oozing out of the Polk Audio waterproof marine speakers nestled in the doors. I slowed down to a 15 mph crawl as I passed through a school zone when I noticed it.  About 50 feet in front of me, walking down the sidewalk, were two boys, about 13 years old, noses buried in their phones slowly walking toward me when one of them heard my muffler bellowing and looked up.  I recognized it at once.  The look that crossed his face.  Eyes bugged out as his jaw dropped slightly.  His gaze never deviated from the general as he started violently nudging his friend.  The friend looked my direction and promptly forgot whatever text he was reading.  they both stopped putting feet in front of each other and just stood there pivoting as I passed by them... eyes wide, jaws open, looking exactly like Howie Grace did on that cold spring morning back in 1983... where a seed was planted.

Editor's note: upon review, several members of my esteemed Miata club, Very graciously pointed out to me that I had neglected to include a picture of Melissa's car, the "fairer" of the cars in my immediate Miata family.  So after some gnashing of teeth and some snapping of curling irons, I have edited this post to include a picture of the chosen vehicle.  Enjoy! 

Redemption

 

     I have, in the last few years, attempted to refrain from being too open about my personal problems.  Not because I'm withdrawn, but mostly because I'm of the mindset that most people don't want to hear about someone else's problems.  However, I need to delve into it for a bit so I can tell y'all this story. So bare with me.   I, am a raging alcoholic.  there, I said it.  For those of you who don't know, or were not paying attention, I spent well over a decade drinking myself to death.  I destroyed relationships.  I lost jobs. I sunk my career.  I went through a lot of self destruction.  I'll spare all bits and pieces and just say that about 3 years ago, I finally hit rock bottom and sought out some help.  Here is a little story that happened to me along the way.  I wanted to share it with you.

    A couple of years before I quit drinking, I had a friend land me a gig working for a company that was, by all means, a really decent job.  The job was driving a truck.  The guy I had to work for, His name was Cliff.  Well, wouldn't you know it? Cliff was just a complete asshole.  Former military.  Way too uptight.  Way too organized.  Abrasive and way too intimidating. Set in his ways, no matter how wrong they were.  But, I really had to put it in there and deal with this guy if I wanted the job.  He was the supervisor after all.  So, I did what I had to do.  All I wanted was to get through the days and spend my free time drinking as much as possible anyway.  This job was great for that, because I spent a lot of time on the road living in hotel rooms where no one could watch me.  I had the whole world fooled.

    The job was seasonal.  I finished out the season, and returned the next year to do it all over again.  In the course of that year and a half, I got more and more frustrated with the job.  Mostly because people were accusing me of "things I didn't do"  Cliff became such a pain to work for.  Breathing down my neck about shit that I didn't do.  Or at the very least, stuff that wasn't my fault.  I finally left the job before finishing out the season.  I ducked out to take another job and left Cliff in a tight spot.  He and I (mostly he) had an exchange of words that was far from pleasant.  Some very mean things were said, and I left.

    I went through a couple of jobs after that.  None of them lasted quite a year, because my drinking kept getting me into trouble.  It was about this time that I had a moment of clarity in my life, and realized that I desperately needed help to get away from booze.  I sought it out, and I found some wonderful people to help me with that.  I had been sober for about 6 months when I realized that I really needed to put some focus on getting my professional life back to something productive.  It was almost time for season to start again at the company where I had started working with Cliff, and I did what any self respecting man in recovery would do, I put my hat in my hands and cleared my throat. 

    My hands were shaking when I dialed Cliff's number.  It rang about 8 times...  I was thinking through how to word my voicemail message when he answered the phone.  I spent a few minutes laying out to this man what I was doing.  I explained my recovery.  I apologized for my behavior.  And then I asked him if he could find it in his heart, I could really use a second chance.  Cliff got quiet, He said "let me consider it and I will get back to you".  I thanked him and hung up.  Two weeks later, I got the message: Cliff was NOT in the business of giving second chances.  In, fact he never did it.  But, against his own better judgement, he was going to give me another chance.  I got the gig.    I worked hard through the season.  Did my job, and did it without complaining, and to the best of my ability.  At the end of the season, Cliff came up to me and shook my hand.  He told me that he was proud of me.  He said that I had really made an impression on him.  And then he told me that he wasn't going to answer the phone the day I called, but something compelled him to, and he didn't regret it. 

    I continued to do some occasional work for Cliffs company.  Cliff moved on to another job.  I ended up running with the employment and turning it into a pretty good, reliable income for myself.  I branched out to a few other companies, and today, I work for several different organizations within the entertainment business as a freelance driver. I got to go on tour with Phil Collins and Billy Joel before the corona virus hit.   I kept in touch with Cliff.  Keeping him updated on my life and my recovery, and the progress I was making in both areas.  

This week, I saw that the company Cliff was working for had a very large gig in my home town.  On a whim, I texted Cliff and asked if he would be coming.  Indeed, he would, but he wouldn't have time for much more than a lunch break. I insisted on meeting this man for lunch.  We made the arrangements.  I take the practice of breaking bread with another person very seriously.  I really don't like eating with people that I don't trust or don't like.  Life is too short.  So, with just about an hour to spare, I sat down with this man. I insisted on paying for his lunch, because I believe that I might not have the opportunities that I have in front of me today, had this man not given me a second chance. We ate, and we talked, like friends.  I had a really good time.  Free of stress, and just soaking in the conversation and the company of a man that I had really grown to appreciate.  We parted ways with a hand shake, and promised to keep in touch, which I am positive we will.   

If you ever come to believe that you are beyond redemption, don't be afraid to stop and take stock of your surroundings.  Humble pie can taste better than you might think.  It's also healthy for the digestive system.  And if you have ever just about had enough of someone screwing up and doing all the wrong things, If they show they have the desire to change, and are taking the steps, at least consider giving them another chance.  They MAY let you down again, but if just ONE person can prove you wrong, and redeem themselves.... Well then, I bet that's a pretty amazing feeling!

Thank You Cliff.  I cant say that hard enough!

(In case you are wondering, going on 3 years sober now, but that's not what this story is about)

Teach A Man To Fish.

 

 Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day.  Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.  So goes the old Chinese proverb. It has more ramifications than just the literal sense.  However, in a very literal application, it has a profound influence.  I live in a part of the world that enjoys all the bounties that the sea has to offer.  A good portion of the population here enjoy the fruits of the harbor and the gulf.  Conversely, a great number of those folk who enjoy the fishing for sustenance and sport in my part of the world, owe their own abilities, at least in part to one local man.

     Fish'n Frank has been a local landmark in Charlotte County Florida for as far back as I can remember. To walk through the door at his bait and tackle shop on US 41, was to walk in the footsteps of thousands of anglers before you.  Indeed, the hardwood floors were so worn, that in places, there were grooves for pathways through the aisles of assorted rods, tackle, bait freezers and Polaroids of assorted anglers who had walked these halls before you that littered the store.  It was so crammed with assorted fishing trinkets that hung off the walls and from random hooks in the ceiling, that at times one felt compelled to duck their head for a fear of getting their hair snagged in a random piece of tackle that might be hanging from a fixed location. And there in the middle of it, at a chest high counter that was so aged, that most of the lacquer had worn completely off, was where you could usually find Frank dispensing some bit of assistance or random advice to an aspiring fisherman.

    It would be entirely safe to assume, that since Frank opened his shop in 1985, hundreds of thousands of people have passed through his doors seeking bait, lures, line, and especially random pieces of advice about where to catch the big one. This is where Frank always shined.  You could always count on Frank to know, not just where the fish were biting today, but why.  The ins and outs of tide movements, the location of the moon, rain fall, pollutants in the water source, and why hopping on your left leg while humming the Star Spangled Banner while you cast your line might beget more fish.  If there is a secret to it, Frank knows it.  And he was always willing to share it with his customers.   

    Early in the morning in late May, the local landmark that is Fish'n Frank's tackle shop burned entirely to the ground, along with everything that Frank and his crew and his family have worked to build.  Sure, it was modest, but it was his, neigh it was OURS!  Because Frank had one of the few places that a person could go, where he could learn how to fish.  If teaching a man to fish feeds him for a lifetime, then indeed, it can be reasoned that Frank has gone far and above his responsibility as a member of a community to help feed countless people. And in a couple of hours, all of that he worked for was gone. For those of us who understand where the fish are biting, and why, and know how to tie the correct knot on our hooks and lures, and know which bait to use and why, NOW is the time to repay that debt to a man who taught us to feed ourselves. 

PHOTO By Matthew Butcosk Twisted Chassis Photography

    I am already astounded by the outreach from my community to get Frank back open as soon as possible.  But every bit we can do is going to help right now.  I don't have a lot to give, but I, like many, have a debt to this man.  I am asking my community now, to reach out, and repay a man who has helped us all to fish, eat and enjoy the wonderful bounty that Mother Nature has put here for us.


As of the writing of this blog, the best way to find out how to help is probably to visit the Facebook page dedicated to helping this Man.  You can find the link here:   Help Rebuild Fish'n Frank