THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, June 22, 1995 TAG: 9506220622
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: GUY FRIDDELL
LENGTH: Long : 105 lines
From West Palm Beach comes word that more than 3,000 drivers have unwittingly bought used cars that previous owners discarded under Florida's lemon law because of chronic problems.
That's as deep as we need go into Florida's lemons. I have only one reader there, first cousin Margie in Tallahassee; but there'd have been enumerable lemons in my garage, if I'd had a garage.
Just last week the silver-gray convertible threw a rod that knocked a hole in the engine through which the entire starter assembly fell in the middle of Newtown Road at high tide of home-ward bound commuters.
(You have no idea how much pleasure that recital gives friends, who fall about laughing until they dissolve in tears. What a solace to have such merry brethren! Women are dismayed at its fate; men, gasping for breath with mirth, grab a newcomer by the shoulders and shout in joy: ``Wait'll you hear what happened to Friddell's car smack in the MIDDLE of Newtown Road!'')
An understanding tow-truck driver hauled it deep into the shade at the rear of the driveway. Where it rests, for now.
Another old car was a woody, a station wagon that had accumulated 280,000 miles, enough, had it been in a line straight up, to get to the moon. It took to just quitting when it tired.
To cope with that quirk, I cut off the motor only on a hill or by a gas pump. One day a friend invited me to his retreat in Gloucester on the Ware River when the world was too much with him, as William Wordsworth once said, I think.
He met me with a grin that faded when it developed that I couldn't cut off the engine during the visit.
In his boat, where he usually relaxed, he fiddled and fawed and said, finally, ``I can hear that confounded motor muttering way out here in the middle of the river!''
A more dramatic episode occurred on a trip to join Gov. Mills Godwin at a private airport in Richmond to fly to Staunton where he was to speak at Woodrow Wilson's Birthplace, or, ``the Birthplace,'' as it is called in Staunton.
Parking it far away from other cars, to avoid a lot of talk, I boarded the plane. But nothing missed the eye, or ear, of the governor's executive assistant, Carter Lowance, or ``Cyahtah,'' as six successive governors called him.
``Did you know you left the mortor running in your wagon?'' Lowance asked, as we took off.
``YOU DON'T SAY!'' I exclaimed.
It disturbed the governor. His speech was, as usual, splendid, but shorter. ``I have reason to hurry to Richmond,'' he told the throng.
The last time it stopped was beyond Waynesboro. I called a friend, Buzz Dawborn, to see that it was hauled off. Then I set out hitchhiking to Roanoke; my companion, Don Hill, took off for Berryville.
Buzz sold the wagon for a dollar.
I never again saw Hill.
From West Palm Beach comes word that more than 3,000 drivers have unwittingly bought used cars that previous owners discarded under Florida's lemon law because of chronic problems.
That's as deep as we need go into Florida's lemons. I have only one reader there, first cousin Margie in Tallahassee; but there'd have been enumerable lemons in my garage, if I'd had a garage.
Just last week, the silver-gray convertible threw a rod that knocked a hole in the engine through which the entire starter assembly fell in the middle of Newtown Road at high tide of homeward-bound commuters.
(You have no idea how much pleasure that recital gives friends, who fall about laughing until they dissolve in tears. What a solace to have such merry brethren! Women are dismayed at its fate; men, gasping for breath with mirth, grab a newcomer by the shoulders and shout in joy: ``Wait'll you hear what happened to Friddell's car smack in the MIDDLE of Newtown Road!'')
An understanding tow-truck driver hauled it deep into the shade at the rear of the driveway. Where it rests, for now.
Another old car was a woody, a station wagon that had accumulated 280,000 miles - enough, had it been in a line straight up, to get to the moon. It took to just quitting when it tired.
To cope with that quirk, I cut off the motor only on a hill or by a gas pump. One day a friend invited me to his retreat in Gloucester on the Ware River when the world was too much with him, as William Wordsworth once said, I think.
He met me with a grin that faded when it developed that I couldn't cut off the engine during the visit.
In his boat, where he usually relaxed, he fiddled and fawed and said, finally, ``I can hear that confounded motor muttering way out here in the middle of the river!''
A more dramatic episode occurred on a trip to join Gov. Mills Godwin at a private airport in Richmond to fly to Staunton, where he was to speak at Woodrow Wilson's Birthplace, or ``the Birthplace,'' as it is called in Staunton.
Parking it far away from other cars, to avoid a lot of talk, I boarded the plane. But nothing missed the eye, or ear, of the governor's executive assistant, Carter Lowance, or ``Cyahtah,'' as six successive governors called him.
``Did you know you left the mortor running in your wagon?'' Lowance asked, as we took off.
``YOU DON'T SAY!'' I exclaimed.
It disturbed the governor. His speech was, as usual, splendid, but shorter. ``I have reason to hurry to Richmond,'' he told the throng.
The last time it stopped was beyond Waynesboro. I called a friend, Buzz Dawborn, to see that it was hauled off. Then I set out hitchhiking to Roanoke; my companion, Don Hill, took off for Berryville.
Buzz sold the wagon for a dollar.
I never again saw Hill. by CNB