What is your all time favourite automobile?
I’ve never been a car person. I don’t follow models or specifications, and I don’t care about engines for their own sake. Cars, to me, have always been practical: a way to get where you need to go. But my father loved cars and he developed a passion for vintage cars when I was in my early teens.
Our first attempt at a project was a rusted-out car that he found in a field in Bribbaree, NSW. There wasn’t much left to save. We pulled it apart, realised it was too far gone, sold what we could for parts, and moved on.
My father eventually bought a Model T from its original owner in Bathurst — the car was about forty-five years old at the time but still in decent shape. It was a 1928 Model T Ford and is still my favourite.
It became a long-term project, and most weekends I helped as needed—passing tools, holding something in place, lifting what was heavy. I wasn’t invested in the restoration itself; I was just there to assist. He finished the car when I was fifteen. The night before its first rally to Canberra, I fell asleep under it with a spanner in my hand. That sums up the experience well enough.
We took the car on club outings. In heavy rain we pushed newspaper around the edges of the windscreen to keep water out. On the way back, during the steep climb up Victoria Pass, everyone except my father had to get out and walk so the car could manage the hill. My youngest sister was only thee at the time. Later, it was used as the bridal car for all five children’s weddings. The same vehicle, appearing in every album.
Eventually, my father sold it. Age and health made it harder for him to maintain and drive it. He’s ninety-five now and no longer on the road, but the Model T still comes up regularly in conversation. It’s part of our shared history.
So even though I’m not interested in cars per se, the Model T is my favourite. Not because of how it drove, but because of the time attached to it: helping my father when he needed help, being part of something that mattered to him, and realising later that these things stay with you.
The Afterword 
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