“Come on in,” was the response to my knock on the door of Ruth and Bob Taylor, my wife Mary’s sister and brother in law.

“Haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been?” asked Mary.

“Fairly well,” Ruth said, and the conversation continued on into the afternoon, filling in each other on the latest happenings of potential interest.

An aroma filled the air teasing my appetite. I thought we should be moving on home soon, so as not to interfere with their suppertime. Bob came in and announced that his bean soup was done and that we should stay and sup with them. It smelled so good that no one could refuse the invitation. The expression on Bob’s face that sported a sharp nose slightly tending toward one side and penetrating, near-black eyes made it plain that the invitation was sincere.

“Mighty good bean soup,” I had to admit.

“Thanks. You have to simmer the pintos for a couple of hours with a big chunk of fat salt cured bacon. I like mine with a lot of raw onion sliced up in it. One of my favorite dishes,” Bob said as he applied a generous helping of good strong onion. He had made a large pot of bean soup, and a good thing, too, for after feeding his family and mine, I think there was little left over.

After supper I noticed a car with its rear end smashed sitting in front of his garage, and asked, “Did someone wreck your car?”

“No,” he said, “ I bought a wreck. Come on, I’ll show you.”

“You bought it? It looks in pretty bad shape to me,” I said in amazement.

“It’s a Packard,” he said. “I like to work on Packards. I’m looking for another one of the same model with the front end wrecked. I’ll use the front end of this one and the rear end of the other to make a good late model car.”

“Well, good luck,” I said skeptically. Bob was a mail carrier who liked to tinker with cars in his spare time. He told of odd things he did along his mail route, such as putting aside his mail pouch and helping an old lady get to her potty and back to her chair, among other things. He was a good-hearted soul.

Two or three months after our visit, a ruby-maroon colored car pulled into my driveway. Bob and Ruth got out and headed for the front door. They had come for a friendly visit. I noticed by the unique shape of its grill, that the car was a late model Packard.

“Hi folks. Looks like you got a new car.” I said.

“No,” Bob said, “It’s the one you saw when you were at our house a while back.”

“No kiddin’. I’ll be durned. What I saw was a wreck. You must have found the other wreck you had in mind,” I said.

“Yep, I found the same model one with the front end smashed. Got it cheap, too. It had all the good parts I needed to make a whole car. Gave it a paint job. Looks pretty decent, huh?” Bob said proudly.

“Looks great,” I said.

“I’ll drive it until I can sell it. Then I’ll find me another wreck to fix up.” Bob said.

“You’re goin’ to sell it?” I said.” Let me take it for a test drive.” He did and I did. It was indeed a very nice car. It was easy to drive and showed no signs of having been in a wreck.

It was near the end of the Packard era; in very few years the company was to be out of business. Packard had been a big name in luxury cars, but was competing with less expensive models. However Bob’s car was entirely adequate for my use. Besides that, I was overdue for getting rid of the old clunker I’d been driving.

After mulling it over for a few days, I made a deal with Bob and bought his car. We were both happy with the deal and he started looking for another wreck.

I drove the Packard for several years, to work, on occasional weekend trips, and vacation tours with little trouble.

One wet day I was taking the family somewhere in the car. Mary was in the front seat as usual and four little kids in back. Without warning Mary squealed and lifted her feet off the floor.

“What’s the matter, is there a mouse down there?” I said.

“No, my hose are getting wet.” She said.

“Oh nuts,” I said, “The spike heels on your shoes must have punched through the rusty floor. Use the rag in the glove compartment to plug the hole.”

I knew the end was nigh for the Packard. I guess the words yet unspoken by a fellow engineer at work, “Jess, you never own a car. You marry it,” were true, even then. Was I really a bigamist?