So...What is HartNews? HartNews is my attempt to write about life and watercolor from where I see it. As a teacher, I enjoy passing on some of the things I think about or do in watercolor. As a fellow human, I wish to pass on some of the things that inspire me - or make me laugh!. I've included you in this issue - you who are painters, friends, former guests and/or family - some of you without your expressed permission. So…please reply and ask to be removed from this mailing list if you'd rather not get monthly (hopefully) HartNews editions - or just delete me! And - if you have something you'd like add or say, just email me! and please feel free to pass this on to your friends....

In this Issue:

• Quote of the Month
• Jan's Demo, en plein aire at Ghost Ranch
• News with Jan at the Ranchito
• Websites to check out
• On the Horizon - Workshops, Etc.
• 2nd Installment - "1500 Miles in a '38 Plymouth" - a true road-trip journey

Quote of the Month

"To have ideas one must have imagination. To express ideas one must have science.

All this is to urge you to investigate, to read, to think. You will understand what the word technique refers to. You will wake up to the fact that the only education that counts is self-education" Robert Henri, The Art Spirit

Jan's plein aire Demo at Ghost Ranch

"1500 Miles in a '38 Plymouth"A memorable road trip that Carol and I made two years ago - from Grants Pass, Oregon to Española, New Mexico in 6+ days........

Days 3 and 4, June 27 and 28, 2000 Please see HartNews Vol. 2 for Days 1 & 2 in Archives (above)

Day 3: June 27, 2000 - Tuesday (Grants Pass, Oregon to Medford, Oregon.) 40 miles

Carol packed the car - painting supplies in first – as we probably wouln’t be using them on the trip. Then, the luggage and the entire right side of the trunk with all of the car necessities – gas, water, tools, extra water pump, etc. After breakfast and coffee, we fastened our sign on the trunk, "New Mexico or Bust", a red, white and blue felt ribbon on the grill and headed into town for a few last minute things at a local store. With a final stop at the gas station for a fill up, we were off! I began the drive with Carol checking the map and listening to every nuance of the engine.
We were only about 10 miles out of town when the engine started hesitating. We tensed, silently urging her forward. Soon she was missing and sounded like she was struggling for gas. We pulled over into the shade of a giant redwood tree along the Rogue River. Carol jumped out to check the points to make sure they were open. A man and his daughter pulled in behind us to admire the car. He had once owned a car exactly like Elizabeth and said he couldn’t just drive by without paying his respects. He was smiling as he checked all of the chromed décor as well as the rubber bumper gaskets, etc. "You have all the parts I searched so hard to find!" He went on to say that he had been working on his Plymouth when called into action to Viet Nam. He left the car with his parents. When he was declared missing in action, his parents finally sold the car. He was found a week later.
That’s okay," he said. "I have wonderful memories of that car – and when I saw you, I just had to stop." He was most appreciative - as was I.
A woman stopped soon after and said that she had once owned a car that "looked a lot like this one but it was a '44 Mercury." She frowned. "My husband managed to stall it on some railroad tracks and that was the end of the car. He didn’t even have the decency to go with it!" She marched off. We began to understand that this car attracted attention, wanted or not.
We started the car again and were back on the road. Ten miles later the process repeated. True to our ratio of 10 miles per stop - after about 50 miles we’d made five stops. Each time we pulled over Carol checked something else – fuel pump, fuel filter, etc. At around mile 45, I glanced in the rear view mirror to see our "New Mexico or Bust" sign fly off into the wind. Not a good sign. Literally.
Our mile 50 stop was a stall on an overpass over the Rogue River somewhere near a small town called White City. This time Carol took off the air filter system after she worked on the supposedly rebuilt fuel pump. A nice gentleman stopped who said he had a ’34 Chevy. At this point we were ready for any advice. He scratched his head and said he didn’t know much but what he knew was that it sounded like vapor lock. "Vapor lock is the name of the game in these old cars!" I recalled family vacations in an old staionwagon with my Dad murmuring "vapor lock".
I asked Carol what she thought we should do for vapor lock. When she replied that she thought maybe we'd let it cool off and then drive at night I understood that we were stuck for the afternoon. Carol was hunched over the engine. I suggested that we call a tow service and get towed to the next town. She smiled and said, "I think we just need to let it cool and then go into town and find a nice latte." That sounded great to me though I wasn't too sure about the latte... We decided to try to push the car off the overpass and into the shade to wait out the vapor lock.

Just as we positioned ourselves for the big push, along came a helpful man with a Ford Bronco, willing to tow us to White City - if we had a tow rope. We did. He towed us about 5 miles to a 4-way stop light that was apparently the extent of White City. Luckily, there was one garage located on the far side of the stop lights. Our Ford Bronco tow left us at the paved entrance and Carol walked over to the office, hoping that the garage mechanic could help us by blowing out the fuel line. The owner said he was about to close and was swamped but that we could set up in the shade behind the garage if we'd like. Carol walked back and tried starting the car while I jumped out to push. Immediately two men who just happened to be nearby joined me as we negotiated our way slowly to the designated area in back of the garage. I wondered why the men kept glancing over at me and thought that perhaps they were reacting to the seeming oddity of two women and an old car. After they left I realized I was still wearing the tiara! Oh well.
Carol decided that the problem was really the fuel pump. It was supposedly rebuilt, but she decided to re-build it again, which I discovered meant taking it all apart, cleaning it and putting it all back together. Armed with Q-tips and extra gasoline, she began cleaning all the parts lined up on the asphalt. My job became mechanic gopher. I spent my time running and getting her things that she needed from the trunk or elsewhere. I ran across the weed covered lot to Napa Auto Parts to buy a 1/2" open wrench that she needed. I ran the other way across the weed covered lot to buy a submarine sandwich and cokes. I ran and asked the Napa people if they had a new fuel pump and they laughed. Their catalog listed parts that only went back to 1939. Actually - that was pretty close! Then I ran to the phone booth and called Bob Webster, the original mechanic to ask him if he knew whether the 1939 and 1938 fuel pumps were the same – but he wasn’t home. At about 8:00 I suggested we try to find a tow and motel. Carol was covered with grease. As she walked past me to the trunk, shaking her head I heard her say, "this is pretty serious". I looked up in alarm and asked what she meant. She replied, "I’m donating one of my small watercolor brushes to the cause." She walked back to her unassembled pieces. I knew it was indeed serious if she had decided to use a sable hair brush to clean a fuel pump.
When the car still refused to start after Carol replaced the cleaned and rebuilt fuel pump, we finally succumbed and called AARP for a tow to Medford. We asked the tow truck driver for a motel near an automotive supply store – and he towed us to The Comfort Inn at the south end of Medford, which generously gave us a "break down rate" in addition to our AARP discount. Gratefully, we parked, showered and went to bed! Carol brought her greasy clothes in for tomorrow’s attire. Sometime in the night we had a conversation with Bob Webster, back in Grants Pass – only 60 miles away, who recommended that we give up on the fuel pump he had "re-built" and that Carol had re-built again. He suggested that we get a new electric pump to replace the non-functioning electric fuel pump that my Dad had installed years ago. It would be up to Carol to decide what to do. We felt disheartened and hoped that a few hours of sleep would replenish our optimism.

Day 4, Wednesday, June 28 (Medford, Oregon to Ashland, OR., to Klamath Falls, OR.) 87 miles

On what was supposed to be the last day of the extreme heat wave, the car was parked in a feeble bit of shade behind the motel. We enjoyed the continental breakfast, had coffee – and Carol was soon back at work with the fuel pump, trying to prime it with gasoline to get it going. Over and over we tried – me pumping the gas pedal, throttling and choking only to have hopes raised when the engine caught and then dashed when the now familiar gasping began again. The pump just wouldn’t continue. I was beginning to wonder if this would be the last of our drive and the beginning of our long transport to New Mexico. But Carol persevered. We tried it again. She saw bubbles, thought that was a good sign – so - one more time again. She took the filter off to see if that would help. It didn’t. Choices. We will either try to purchase a new electric fuel pump or see if just maybe there is another manual fuel pump in Medford.
As Carol climbed in and out from under the car, new mattresses were being delivered to the Comfort Inn. Several men were busy carrying old ones down the back stairs and new ones up. One of the workers was a black man with a big smile whose name was Derrick. During one of the 10 minute breaks he and some of the others came over to see what we were doing. We were relieved and surprised when he handed us the keys to his fancy sports car and said, "Ladies, please use my car to go out and find whatever you need to fix yours. I have no problem with you driving it anywhere! I just want to help." And so he did. We drove to a nearby Napa store and Carol asked about purchasing either a manual or electric fuel pump for Elizabeth.
The man behind the counter checked his books and told us what we feared – a 6 volt electric fuel pump was not available. He could possibly order us one but it’d take some time. Sorry. A second man behind the desk quietly walked to the phone, dialed and handed the receiver to Carol, who was soon talking to the man who would turn our troubled beginning into a 1500 mile success. But we didn’t know it yet. The helpful Napa employee had called Wally Cannon in nearby Ashland. I watched Carol’s face light up as she talked with Mr. Cannon. We were told that he worked at Haskell’s garage in Ashland and knew everything about old cars. Mr. Cannon directed Carol to reverse one of the springs in the pump. Carol’s face beamed for the first time in two days. She hadn’t wanted to give up on the fuel pump and now had something new to try! We thanked the Napa salesman, got Mr. Cannon’s address and phone number just in case. jumped back into the sports car – and returned to The Comfort Inn! While Carol once again removed the fuel pump and did what she had been directed, I thanked Derrick for the use of his car. He graciously gave us his cell phone number and asked that if we had any more trouble in the area to please call him. I smiled and thought about the people who had helped us – everyday folks just doing a little more than asked to.
Fuel pump reinstalled, I held my breath as I pushed the ignition pedal with my right foot. The engine threatened to catch, and died. That did it. Carol walked to my window and said she thought we should go to Haskell’s garage in Ashland to meet Wally Cannon. Somewhat reluctantly, I went to the phone, made arrangements with the same tow truck driver from last night and by 3 p.m. we were towing Elizabeth south on Hwy I-5. I felt a little hesitant about "surprising" Mr. Cannon, but believed in Carol’s hunch. I glanced at her sitting next to me, excitement in her eyes. She was certain we should go to Ashland. Though Mr. Cannon hadn’t suggested we come, didn’t know we were on our way and the garage wasn’t known by our driver – she intended to bring the reticent Plymouth to him. As we drove along seated beside the driver, he talked about the business he owned with his wife. Then he asked if we remembered the big black semi truck that Thelma and Louise had blown up in the movie. We remembered it well. "There it is. It’s ours!", he shouted as he pointed to the huge black truck parked behind a wire fence. Thelma and Louise. I smiled about our own, blissfully less violent two-woman adventure….
As we turned onto the 2 lane street near the railroad tracks, it felt like we had turned back in time. The little garage sat close to the sidewalk, white with blue trim. It’s style reminded me of a kind of retro-mission complete with an old gas pump out in front. Our driver maneuvered Elizabeth parallel to the gas pump while we went to find Mr. Cannon. The door was locked, no one answered and we saw no one when we circled the building. Next door we found the owners of a small canvas awning shop who reported that Wally had left 20 minutes ago and would probably be back. They’d known him for 17 years and knew his routines. Offering their phone, they suggested we call his home. His wife was sure he would be back to the shop in awhile. We thanked the tow truck driver and decided to walk down the block to look for food. Ambling along in the 90 degree heat we discussed our plight and what we needed. Right now iced tea and salads would be fantastic. If only. Two blocks later we stumbled into the air conditioned comfort of Leona’s Café, specializing in Caesar and Greek salads and herbal iced tea! Heaven and Miracles!

Haskel's Garage in Ashland, Oregon

A few minutes after we returned to the garage, Mr. Cannon appeared. A 72 year old gentleman with white hair, a quiet manner and ready smile greeted us almost as if we were expected. We introduced ourselves as Carol handed the troublesome fuel pump to him. He gently carried it inside to his work table. "Hm," he murmured. "This fuel pump should work…." Countless times I’d heard my own father mutter the same phrase as he began his process of elimination to find the offending part. As Carol bent over the pump with Wally, I listened as he explained that he’d been the sole proprietor at Haskell’s garage for the past 52 years, had retired in 1984 and now referred to himself humorously as "semi retired full time". He carefully cleaned all of the parts, scraping off the liquid gasket material that Carol had used in her rebuilding process, replacing a tiny little filter with something that he pulled out of a box and replacing some springs with new ones that looked like they had originated in a ball point pen. Then he patiently began to put it all back together again. Getting out a well worn wooden ladder, he climbed high to open a drawer containing a box containing a brand new gasket. All the while he smiled. We were addressed as "you girls", and Carol specifically donned the nicknames "Kiddo" or "Dearie". I watched their faces – both appreciating the workings of this old fuel pump, both understanding the way the parts moved together and sounded, and both with unbelievable patience and anticipation. I looked at my own non-understanding. Hours before, I had decided that since the fuel pump wasn’t responding we needed to find a new electric one and get on with it. I was in total awe as I watched Mr. Cannon at his bench – carefully reaching for a particular tool that was mounted on the wall above him, quietly turning a wrench, listening to the noise that the pump makes when manually manipulated. While he worked I walked around in this shop that probably looked much the same as 50 years before. Drawers and shelves to the ceiling, an old wood counter with various memmorabilia scattered behind. Several rebuilt 4 and 6 cylinder engines rested nearby, clean and ready to resume their services. Above his work bench hung all kinds of tools, carefully arranged and maintained – some very old and with names we’d never heard of. He referred to them as "old timers". An old bakelite radio looked completely at home. This was a museum – and again I felt the presence of my father who I knew would have enjoyed meeting Mr. Cannon and being in his shop.
At one point during the conversation, we described some of the trouble we had been having during the past 2 days. He looked up and said, "What’s your gas cap like?" When Carol replied that it was just an ordinary one, he said, "Bring it to me." Carol went out and returned with the cap. Holding it in his hands he said, "This, my dear, is a radiator cap." I knew when to ask what the difference was. He smiled, walked down the passageway between shelves and drawers and returned with what appeared to be an identical cap. Smiling, he turned it over and pointed to the tiny air hole that allowed air into the fuel system. Carol remembered that she had opened the gas cap each time she worked on the car up until this morning when she had forgoten. I had the impression he’d replayed this gas cap interlude a hundred times in his career. He was a born teacher. I could also tell that he was enjoying our surprise visit and wasn’t in a hurry to lock up and go home. He would stay until the job was done.
At about 6:30, Wally and Carol carried the rebuilt-again fuel pump to the car. Carol crawled under while Mr. Cannon watched appreciatively. To me he whispered, "She’s quite a little work horse isn’t she?" I nodded and smiled. While Carol installed the fuel pump and replaced the fuel filter once again, he went back into his shop. Finally Carol announced we were ready. I jumped in behind the wheel in my usual position and waited for instructions. Wally stood beside the car and indicated about an inch with his fingers - the amount of choke I was to set. Then, choke pulled, key turned and gear shift in neutral, I pushed the ignition pedal and gave a whoop when the engine caught, sputtered and then began to drone smoothly. We were ecstatic! I wondered if it was safe to drive the car out of his magic spell. We let the car idle happily while we said our good byes and thousandth thanks. I got out my check book and asked what we owed him. He turned and walked back into his garage as he thought. "Hm", he said. "It won’t be very much…" I was willing for any amount he asked. Except what he said. "Ten dollars oughta cover it." Ten dollars? A couple hours and 52 years of experience, plus a gas cap, copper tube, priceless gasket and wonderful memory? I quickly replied, "No way." He was insistent. He didn’t need the money and had enjoyed the experience. I handed him a twenty and resisted the urge to give him a big hug. We honked and waved as we drove away. We were finally on our way.
Elizabeth purred. It was all we could talk about. We wound our way up the grade along Hwy 66 through Pinehurst and gained confidence by the mile. By the time we approached Klamath Falls, we felt we were hitting our stride! The sun was just going down as we crept in to a park pond to watch the swans and ducks on the water. It felt good to be alive and we were elated to be as far as we were. We’d made it only 60 miles in the first two days, but we’d made over that today and hadn’t started until evening!! We decided to go on to Lakeview! We’d been told that the headlights were dim but workable. I switched them on. At the far edge of town while stopped at a light we were suddenly hit by a police car spotlight across the intersection. He flashed his headlights. We understood immediately that ours were not working. It’d be Klamath Falls for the night. As we turned around, we saw another police officer in the process of arresting someone. Waiting until the perpetrator was safely inside the patrol car, Carol asked the officer if he could escort us to a motel. "Sorry," he replied. "You’re on your own, ladies. Your flashlight is your headlight. There’s no one else available." We laughed. We knew we were on our own quite a ways back. Producing a flashlight we slowly headed for the first motel we could find – The Maverick Hotel for $42! There was no food within walking distance but the pizza we ordered from Pizza Hut was the best ever!

Above: The Garage, all in order, Carol and Mr. Cannon standing outside upon finishing the rebuild, the two mechanics at work

To be continued......