Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Unnecessary Background
Back in the early 1970s, as an undergraduate at Michigan State, my girlfriend was Janice C. While that closer relationship ran its course, we remained in sometimes strained but friendly contact to this day. During our college days I was more or less informally adopted into her family, which ultimately involved being a pallbearer at each of her parents’ funerals and a loose association with her two brothers, Richard and Ronald. I became “Uncle Bob” whereas the brothers are still referred to as “Uncle Richie” and “Uncle Ronnie.”
The brothers were and are, let us say, colorful. OK — they are more or less nuts. For some of the bizarre stories you will have to ask. Both were daredevil drivers, and at least Richie was a daring pilot who occasionally performed illegal antics with small aircraft. As I recall, Jan would not fly with him — not because of the flying, but rather the self-preservation instinct not to ride with either of them to the airfield.
The boys owned and still have a 1965 Jaguar XKE 4.2 liter roadster. It was driven brutally until out of commission. Richie became quite successful in various businesses and acquired exotic cars including a Jaguar 150 classic and not one but two Jaguar XKR convertibles. His 2005 XKR he sold to Ronnie; the 2000 XKR he sold to me and is the subject of this article.
Around 2011, Jan and Ronnie asked me to prepare real estate transfer documents to restructure family properties inherited decades earlier. We met in Ann Arbor and with a fair number of revisions I provided draft documents. Contact with Jan and her husband George continued in normal — which is to say limited — course until March 2016, when I got a call from Jan and Uncle Ronnie.
Jan thought they owed me money. I indicated, well, it is likely since I never sent a bill. Both Ronnie and Jan insisted I do so. Ronnie, though always “on” for bizarre conversation, was noticeably over the top on this call. He advised that when we had our meeting in Ann Arbor, I had ordered tea after the meal, but the waitress failed to deliver it and Ronnie paid for it. Hence he would not pay my bill unless he was given credit for the tea I ordered but did not get. If this makes sense to you, I invite you to join our weird but entertaining verbal exchanges.
Never mind — I looked up the digital records of the work, prepared a bill with a $5 discount for “no tea.” The bill was paid in less than a week.
What had precipitated the call was that Richie’s wife Joyce, whom I did not know, had passed away. Richard himself had suffered a stroke and was confined to a motorized wheelchair. Jan and Ronnie had just returned from a road trip to his home in Crofton, Nebraska, presumably for the funeral. They suggested that since Richie could not drive, it would make sense to sell the remaining 2000 XKR — a move that might also aid his eligibility for social services. I declined the offer.
Later I was told by manic Ron that the car only had “1,200 miles” on it — which was not logical since it had been to Florida. It did have only 12,115 original miles and allegedly an “extra set” of tires. Now I started getting interested.
Chapter 2: Getting There
You see, I love convertibles, and in particular I was deeply taken by the XKE coupe since I was a mere 15. At $6,600 in 1965 it was about half a year’s pay. Brother George actually gave me one when I turned sixteen, though only a matchbox model. I still have it. The possibilities started to get under my skin even if it meant dealing directly with Richie, historically the more eccentric brother by a scary margin.
Yes, I decided that I would adopt the Jag, notwithstanding that I owned and loved a 2002 Saab 9-3 convertible. And yes, though my Saab is a 5-speed stick with 200 plus horsepower, is very comfortable and totally fun to drive, the idea of finally having a Jaguar with very low miles totally turned my head. Maryann said I could have the Jag, but I could not have TWO convertibles. Ahhhhhh well. I checked whatever sources for market value and contacted Uncle Richie. We set a price — which he mis-quoted by $450, but I did not care. He said he preferred cash.
Uncle Ronnie was in on all these communications and decided that we should drive out together for a glorious road trip. I said no.
Instead, I booked a flight with American Airlines to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. On the map, Sioux City has an airport and is closer by 40 miles, but the fare was twice as high for unknown reasons. Paid a mere $235 to Sioux Falls one way with a stop at O’Hare in Chicago.
Getting from Sioux Falls to Crofton, Nebraska — well, not so simple. Uncle Richie says “Crofton is not nowhere, it is on the EDGE of nowhere.” He’s wrong. I first tried a limo service. They charge $50 per hour portal to portal. It is about 110 miles airport to Crofton, so that would be more than the flight. Next I called a Sioux City taxi company. Yes, they can do it and they only charge $1.50 per mile point to point — so with a gratuity that comes to about $180. Again, no thanks.
So, trying to be creative, I called the Sioux Falls Visitor and Convention Bureau who said “try the Jefferson Bus lines.” Sounds inexpensive, so why not? I called the folks at Jefferson Bus and of course they do not go to Crofton. They also do not go to Yankton. Their closest stop would be their 8:30 p.m. bus to Vermillion, South Dakota — still about 45 miles from Crofton. Ringing up the Vermillion taxi company I learn that they charge $2.00 a mile. Thanks, but no thanks.
So far it looks like I am stuck at Sioux Falls. I cannot rent a car since I cannot drop it off in Yankton, much less Crofton, and could not drive TWO cars even if I wanted to. Duh.
I got on Google and searched B&Bs in Crofton, Nebraska, and came up with the Argo Hotel. Obviously, this must be the place. I called and eventually got to speak with Sandy, who had purchased the Argo two months prior. She has a small room with private bath across a hallway for $55 plus tax. I take it gratefully. Sandy is personable and quite nice. From my Google search I also learned that the Argo is reported to be haunted, so at the end of the reservation chat I ask, “Is your hotel actually haunted?” Her reply: “Do you want it to be?” My response: “It cannot possibly be as haunted as Uncle Richie’s place.”
At last I tell Sandy of my now three days trying to find a way from Sioux Falls to Crofton. “If you can find someone to pick me up at the airport I will gladly give them $100.” An hour later she calls back to tell me her cousin John Arnes will do it. I called Farmer John — everyone on the upper plains is an old farmer and has a new pickup truck — and he is very accommodating and happy to help. I am finally set.
Meanwhile, Ronnie gets out of the hospital and wants to come along. He has FMLA leave from his job at Wayne State University until July 1st, plus he wants to see Richard for various reasons. None the less, Ronnie gets the flight info out of me and tickets himself onto the same flights. This does solve the airport-to-Crofton problem since Ronnie will rent and return a car. I contacted Farmer John to thank him and to keep him “on call.” I tell him a $25 bar tab will be waiting for him at the Argo. He tried to decline, but I left it to him anyway. Just knowing I have a viable alternate is worth it.
Mare drops me at Detroit Metro Airport a couple of hours early. I clear TSA notwithstanding my concerns about carrying a pile of cash on my person. It is an easy walk out to the gate where I plug in my laptop to do some work and keep an eye out for Uncle Ronnie.
It is getting rather close to boarding. In fact we are now boarding and still no Ronnie. I am standing in Group 2 and feeling real good about having Farmer John on call. My group is moving when Ronnie appears. He has decided he would not shave until he returns to work in July and he has a black eye patch to deal with double vision. He is wearing shorts, a tee shirt, white socks and flip flops and is happy to see Uncle Bob. He looks somewhat like an overweight version of the movie Captain Ron or some other giddy pirate.
Chapter 3: Crofton and the Green Flash
Our weird conversations begin as we get to the boarding check-in person. I am rather good at these exchanges, in part from having a schizophrenic brother and experiences with other similarly odd friends. I rather enjoy engaging in this and I am amused at those around us who overhear the banter. The flight is only 50 minutes and all seems well.
We off-board at O’Hare on Concourse H and have a bit less than two hours until our connection to Sioux Falls, leaving from Concourse G. This is a big airport and I decided we should get a wheelchair aid for Ronnie. It takes a long time for our aid to arrive. Ronnie is delighted with this service and has adopted wheelchair service for all his future travel. Our aid and pusher is a nice fellow named “Danny” who is getting an earful of our bizarre banter as we roll along.
Our next gate is G20, all the way at the end of the other concourse. As we finally approach it, Ronnie queries Danny on where he likes to eat lunch. Danny replies that he likes a Chinese joint back at the hub between Concourse H and G. Ronnie orders Danny to “turn this rig around” and take us to lunch. Danny delivers us to the place but is clearly not joining us for lunch.
Only after Danny departs do I look at my watch. It is now 1:01 and our flight leaves at 1:20. They close the doors ten minutes before push back, so we now have all of nine minutes to get to the end of Concourse G. Ohhhh crap. I grab all our bags and hustle to G14, leaving Ronnie to make his way as fast as he may. Gate G-14 is a further twist as it is on a lower level and easy to miss. I get to the gate huffing and puffing to see only one guy at the desk and no one else around.
“My buddy, puff, diabetic, puff, going to Sioux Falls, puff puff.” “Sir, we close this door in two minutes, but I will try to delay.” “When is the next flight?” “8:30 p.m.” — which is after the rental place closes.
I am about to leave Ronnie’s bag with the clerk and fly alone to get the car when the clerk says “Is this your friend?” I look to see Captain Ron moving right past us and straight onto the plane. No check in, just breezed on in. I stumble onto the plane with all the luggage and plop into my seat sweating — a mere four minutes before push back. Wow, just how dumb of us was that? Still, we made it.
Arrival at Sioux Falls was easy. Ronnie grabbed a wheelchair aid and we headed to the Enterprise rental desk. He got a super deal by booking through Costco. Unfortunately he also booked the off-site location, not the one at the airport, so we have to grab a cab for $10 to go there — 1.6 miles. No biggie.
We headed out of town following the GPS directions to Nebraska. I’m driving, not Ronnie. When we got to Yankton, Ronnie wanted to stop at the Welcome Center because he said it was nifty and they gave away free coffee. It was closed. So instead we went to the Walmart. Ronnie bought 10 letter rippers for Richard, various Batman stuff for himself, Batman hats for both of us, a Dr. Pepper tee shirt for Maryann and a few pocket tees for me as well. He bought a subway salad so as to be prepared for dinner at Richie’s. I passed on the salad. Richie had spoken with us after our airport arrival and had ordered FIVE dinners for us from Meals on Wheels.
We got to the Argo Hotel where I got my key and orientation. Sandy said she would leave the front door open for me and I could lock up when I got in. Very nice. I am pretty sure I am the only guest in the joint.
The Argo was built in 1911 and opened as a railroad hotel in 1912. It ceased to be a hotel around 1935 when it was converted to a medical clinic, more in the nature of hospice — which may account for some of its haunted legend. When re-converted to a hotel in the early 1960s, the remains of a baby were removed from inside a wall and the bar downstairs still has bullet holes in the walls from a mid-century shootout.
Richard’s house is on the edge of town and is a total wreck. We pulled the Jag out onto the street. It looks great. A further look at the “extra tires” in the garage convinced me that there was no need to collect and ship them anywhere but to a recycle place. Perhaps that would be a fair thing to do with the house itself.
Richard not only lost his wife recently but also suffered a debilitating stroke. Mentally he was largely the same — which is to say still eccentric, a lot — but physically reduced. Hence the house was a serious mess with few places to sit and stuff everywhere. I respect Ronnie for the challenge of trying to improve things for his brother, including getting a new dishwasher and, as they put it, “white tornado” the places he could in a valiant effort to push back the jungle.
I pushed to get the mechanics of the Jag transfer done first. Richie had acquired a duplicate title and “signed” it with a large brushy magic marker, making it look like it was signed with a dog’s tail dipped in ink. The car title signed with a magic marker. Ronnie and I took a quick ride to a gas station to check the air in the tires as they looked low. OK, I say “quick” because it is the only gas station. Tires were underinflated. One had only 10 psi and the others were all less than 20 psi. We filled them and zipped out of town for about a mile and then came back. That was the extent of the “test drive.”
After the Meals on Wheels — which actually turned out pretty good — we turned to Mogan David concord wine and various attempts to find a missing remote to the Blu-ray player so Ronnie could watch old Errol Flynn movies. I had been threatened with having to learn to play pinochle, but a deck was never produced and frankly there was no surface to lay a card, much less gather to play. The remote was finally found and the DVD player was fired up at around 9:30 p.m. I had promised myself to head to my haunted hotel at 10:00.
With repeated verbal regrets I went to the Argo, locked it up and slipped into my pleasant room. My private bath had a huge claw foot tub I would have liked to have used, but it was not in the plan. I momentarily considered that I could do this the next time I came to the Argo, but then I came to my senses. Who was I kidding? I would NEVER be back in Crofton, Nebraska. What was I thinking?
Chapter 4: The Drive Home
I was awake at around 5 a.m. local time and got into the shower. So, because the kitchen and bar were under renovation, Sandy had arranged for me to breakfast at the Wiebelhaus Recreation Center — bowling alley and local restaurant. We started referring to it as “The Weasel Place.” Ronnie was also up early and called to say he wanted to join me, so I said “meet me at the Weasel at 7:00.” When I got to the Weasel it was not open. There were a few old farmers in their new pickup trucks waiting outside. Apparently a farmer had the key to open up and get coffee started, but he had not arrived. I texted Ronnie to say I would go to the Frying Skillet in Yankton and he could meet me there.
I crossed the Missouri River on the “New Bridge” and into Yankton, South Dakota. I filled the car with fuel and got a table. Ronnie showed up and we wrote out a draft Bill of Sale for him to print and have Richie sign. The coffee, service and food were mediocre at best. I said goodbye and commenced my journey home.
The ride from Yankton to Sioux Falls was deeply concerning. The car shuddered badly as it approaches 70 mph, even though the legal speed limit there is 80. It was pretty clear that I would not make it to Michigan unless I took action as soon as I got to Sioux Falls — a decent sized city.
I pulled off I-29 and into a Ford dealership just to use my phone to search for a shop that might be able to test and balance my wheels. A Tires Plus store was only a block and a half away. I called them and they said they were busy but would work me in if I could wait. Sure, I can wait. I really had no other option.
Their waiting area has a TV blasting some chick-daytime-nonsense show so I jam in my earbuds and crank up classical music. After some time I see my Jag in the service bay and the guy comes to me with the assessment. Both rear tires need replacing. The left has a broken internal belt and the right is — well — worn out with no tread. They sold me two Continental Pure Contact tires for $523.17. Ouch, but I was stuck. To kill time in a quieter location I headed over to the nearby Fireman’s Sub sandwich shop for a really good submarine while the tire thing got done.
Paid for tires and now I am only three hours behind schedule. I told Uncle Ronnie that he could not travel with me back to Michigan — and the reason was I was not going back. Rather, I was heading to Tomah, Wisconsin. My real brother George, a professor of Dermatology and Pathology at the University of Wisconsin Madison, moonlights at the VA Hospitals including the one at Tomah. It turns out that while Crofton to Chicago is perhaps eight to nine hours, Crofton to Tomah is only six hours and twenty minutes. And George would be doing clinics there that very weekend.
I rang him up to welcome him back from his latest overseas excursion — Dubai and Tehran — and calmly queried him about Tomah. He informed me he would stay with our mutual friends the Petersons in Hillsboro, Wisconsin, a cute town of 1,400 in the heart of Amish rolling farmland. I rang up Henry Peterson and he was in on the plot in a heartbeat. They were all going to the Hillsboro Brewery and I should pop in there.
I fueled up at Tomah and turned off the expressways to drive on Route 131. My voice GPS soon told me to turn right onto County Road W. County Road W is a twisty winding bucolic roller coaster to which the Jaguar is exquisitely suited. Driving well under the bumpy 70 with the V-8 supercharger to pull me through and out of rising and dipping curves, I finally began to truly appreciate the car. I know I can get to like this. The weather was perfect and the light was golden. The only problem remaining is that we don’t live anywhere near a County Road W.
I arrived in Hillsboro precisely at 6:30. Everyone is at the bar having a loud and happy time. George is animatedly talking and facing the bar. I slip right past him with a non-verbal sign to Henry to “shhhh.” I dropped into the empty chair beside him. He turns and — BAM — super surprise. Right then the waitress came by to say a round of drinks was on the house because their pizza was delayed. Great! I get a free beer and the pizza arrived almost immediately anyway. Everything was about too perfect.
We all went to the street to admire the Jaguar parked at the curb. Everyone approved, especially Brother George. After the dining and carousing we went out to the Peterson’s house, beautiful and perched high on a hill in the woods.
Sunday morning I am up at 4:00 a.m. and out the door after making coffee. I am now used to driving slower and traffic is very light so I am already in Michigan by the time Marlene is up and calling me. I stopped to visit with my Mom in Jackson, Michigan and confess to her what I have been up to. When I planned this adventure I missed the point that it was Passover and I would be effectively abandoning my family to get a car. All had worked out well and we had a nice visit.
The ride from Jackson to home is routine in the extreme as it is my regular commute. The trip was a shake-down cruise in the real sense and I noted several repairs that over the next couple of weeks would bring the Jag up to proper condition. Unfortunately, I will have to sell my beloved Saab convertible as I am allowed ONE convertible — not TWO — if I wish to remain married. The Saab sold in three days.
I typically do not name my cars. That said, the working title for this vehicle shall be “The Green Flash” or “Flash” for short. We will see if it sticks.
More Car Stories
Thoughts on Driver’s Training
It is now January 2026. I took driver’s training, let’s see…. 59 years ago? Obviously, there has been changes. Since the COVID Pandemic a vast majority of drivers have apparently been given license to drive at any speed and any way they want. My three chief complaints are A: Tailgating B: Speed and C:
My Jaguar
I have always been fond of convertibles. I will open sunroofs in January. I was asked to “adopt” a 2000 Jaguar XKR convertible the owner of which could no longer drive, but lived in rural Nebraska. Although I am now certain that the odometer was tampered I did fly out to South Dakota and drive