Hello, Tampa!

I got a shock the other day when an e-mail titled "Caspian Blue Convertible" arrived from someone named Lance. "Mark," it began. "I just ran across your Mustang blog."

Now that was a first: a visitor to the blog who's neither a friend nor a relative.

I still don't know how he got here, all the way from Tampa, but I was immediately glad he came. He included links to beautiful photo galleries of his two restoration projects: that 1965 Caspian Blue convertible and a 1966 coupe. He invited me to join an e-mail forum devoted to Mustang restoration and closed with the kind of encouragement that's been coming at me from my "real" Mustang contacts, too. "If there's anything I can do to help get your pony on the road, where she belongs, just let me know," he wrote ... before adding that I should double every figure I've got in my restoration budget, and then expect overruns.

I ignored that last part and changed the subject by asking Lance to share a Mustang memory. Here's what came back from him:

My earliest “Mustang memory” was when I was 4, riding in Mom and Dad’s brand new ’67 Mustang. Mom had that car until around ’76 or so. That was two years before I started driving, so I never had the pleasure of driving that car.

Ever since then, I’ve always loved them. My first car in high school was a ’74 Mustang II. My next car was a ’79 Mustang Ghia followed by an ’81 Mustang hatchback. Then I got married, had children, and started buying station wagons and minivans. One day in 1996 my wife and I went to a “Stadium Sale” at Tampa Stadium.

There was a 1994 Saleen Mustang, and I guess my wife saw how I looked at it, because she slipped her hand in mine and whispered “Get it.”. We struck up a deal and drove it home that day. I still drive it to work most days.

But I always yearned for a classic …

Five years ago, my oldest son was still two years from driving, but I finally saw my chance. I could fix up an old Mustang and should have it done about the time he started driving. At least that's what I told my wife. I picked up a ’66 coupe and began working on it and involving my oldest son as much as possible.

THAT was when the restoration bug bit me. I drove the car as often as I could, and reluctantly turned the keys over to him when he started driving.

After he drove it for a year with no wrecks or tickets, I put it in the body shop, and redid the interior to make it the “coolest car in school.”

Then, last year, my son, who now teaches Tae Kwon Do to children, came home from work and told me that one of the parents had a ’65 ragtop that he wanted to sell. He wanted to know if I knew of anyone who might be interested.

Once again, my lovely wife slipped her hand into mine and said, “Get it.”

The rest, to coin a phrase, is history.