Careful what you wish for?

Okay, deep breath here.

I own a Mustang.

This is it, being delivered to our house on Saturday, five days after I first laid eyes on it. I feel lucky to have found a Mustang in this condition at this price in my own neighborhood. I also feel as if I have now called my own bluff, and must now play out this high-stakes hand without any real idea what I'm doing. Some poker player!

Don, the man who sold it to me, is a story in his own right. I'll tell you about him in a separate post this week.

We met Memorial Day weekend at a flea market for cars held once a month in Amherst. Don was there with two restored Mustangs, one a summer blue convertible that sparkled even on a cloudy day. I walked past a couple times, making the rounds, and then settled in to talk on my third pass.

After the preliminaries, which revealed that he lives just south of Concord and has a yard full of cars, I asked the big question: He didn't happen to have a Mustang convertible in need of restoration, did he?

He had two – one of them now mine, the other a 1970 model. The next morning, Memorial Day, after the service in town, I drove to Don's house to check out my prospect.

There I felt like a bad actor playing a doctor on TV. I knew where to put my stethoscope from my how-to book. But I didn't really know what to listen for.

Rust is the No. 1 killer of old cars. I knew I needed to check the rails, the rocker panels, the torque boxes, the trunk, the floor ... but for what, exactly? How bad is too bad?

Here's an example of how it went: Bring a screwdriver, my how-to book said; if you can jab it into the frame, you've either found cheap patching or a rust-out red alert. So, as Don and I leaned over the engine compartment, and I noticed rust flakes on the frame rail beneath the battery tray, I pulled out my screwdriver.

Gently, I poked at the rail – and didn't go through! Don watched for a moment, then extended his hand for the screwdriver. I could feel my eyes widen as he drove it hard at the metal, an angry clapper striking its bell. "Hear that?" Don said. "That's good metal."

I spent an hour more poking over the car, but I wasn't really reading it. I was reading Don. People I know, at least better than I know cars. I liked Don from the moment I met him, and felt I could trust him. I had encountered perhaps a half-dozen sellers in several weeks of Mustang hunting – all of them online. I had spoken with only two. They – and their cars – were really mysteries to me. It had seemed the best way to find a Mustang, but at the same time terrifying, like buying blind.

Don wanted $5,800 for the car. Seemed in the range, but a bit high – and certainly higher than Brenda had authorized. I tried to nudge Don's price down.

"I need $5,800," he said simply. That, in the end, was what I paid. But what Don did as we worked to yes was to bring more and more into the deal: Yes, he'd deliver the car. Sure, he'd pull the engine, so I wouldn't have to. These two Mustang doors I could have, and an extra hood, and a spare transmission, and two rear quarter panels, just in case, a spare carburetor – and more.

It was more than fair, all in all, and, as of the middle of last week, I took it.

Don and a friend, Billy, delivered on Saturday. It bordered on an event. Leanna took pictures. Ben helped unload the vehicle. Brenda emerged from her cleaning in the house and decided that it looked better than she had feared it would. Dad and Pat arrived in time to meet Don and celebrate the arrival.

Me, I spent the weekend cleaning and rearranging the garage. That and spending money – about $200 to build a dolly for the engine, a sawhorse-and-plywood workbench, storage shelving, a fan to keep air moving and bugs away. Plus I solved my first mechanical challenge: I got the hood open.

A quick word about the Mustang – quick because there will be many more to follow.

It's a 1964 1/2 convertible, which means it's one of the first 29,000 convertibles Ford made in the Mustang's initial selling season, which began in April 1964. My Mustang was built on July 31 and sold in Cincinnati. It was painted Caspian Blue Metallic and had a White Crinkle Vinyl interior. It came underpowered, with a 170-cubic-inch, six-cylinder engine (hey, it gets good mileage), and one unusual option: a four-speed, manual transmission. Who owned it, I can't say, but the bumpers still carry parking permits from the University of Maryland and the University of Delaware in the early 1970s. So it's been to college.

As for what next – I have no idea, really! So I'm going to stall.

The book says I should document it from front to back with photographs. I need to figure out a budget for my time and money. I also need to organize the four boxes of parts that Don delivered along with the car. Next a cleaning pass.

And then, unless advisers suggest otherwise, I'm suppose I'm going to start in the engine compartment. I'm told it's an easy challenge, as these things go – just right for a beginner.