Lives Engines Dreams Engines
October/November 1999
Bronwyn Wilson
22530 87th Avenue S.E., Woodinville, Washington 98072
My husband couldn't leave his first gas engine show without
one teeny purchase. He wanted his own fine specimen of
gears, shafts, and flywheel. An antique engine seemed like a fun
thing since he runs a machine shop out of our home. Once he
unloaded it, I took a look at his new acquisition. It was no bigger
than a 24-inch television set and didn't run too well. I
thought it was cute, painted forest green and sporting a pretty
brass oiler. And comical. It huffed and wheezed trying to start. My
Machine-Man seemed tickled.
And if this were all, I'd have been happy, too.
But soon my husband was gone several nights a week attending the
local gas engine club meetings or trading with other collectors.
When at home, Machine-Man sat across from me with his face buried
in an encyclopedic book titled, American Gasoline Engines Since
1872. If I asked my husband, 'How was your day?,' a
voice from behind the book responded with information about vintage
engines. 'The Alamo 'Blue Line' was introduced in 1913.
. . .'
I attended the club meetings hoping to share my husband's
newfound interest. Over potluck dishes there were discussions of
Sandwiches, Stovers and Stickneys.
'What do you collect?' one woman asked me in between
bites of potato salad. I explained that my husband was the
collector. She began to spill her marital troubles. 'My
man's out of control. It started with a Cushman, then New Ways
and Hercules. Now, I've lost track. Engines are in the garage,
the yard, the spare room. He calls one Handy Andy and another
Waterloo Boy, as if they're members of our family. Just some
friendly advice. Get your husband out. His hobby will take over
your life.'
'Oh, I'm sure it won't come to that,' I laughed,
noting the woman had the sobering expression of a doctor who's
just told a patient she has hours to live.
Exhaust-belching treasures stacked up in Machine-Man's shop.
All were in need of a makeover, and M-Man spent much time restoring
each one. Tired of purchasing gas engines from other collectors,
M-Man detoured through farm country whenever we were headed for the
mall or church. With his head cranked toward pastures and rows of
crops, he checked out farmers' fields. Once, he slammed on the
brakes. As I rejoiced 'hallelujah!' for remembering to
buckle up, my husband was in hot pursuit of a rusting flywheel
poking out of cornstalks. The farmer asked M-Man to just haul that
'ol' hulk' away for him. As if my husband were doing
him the favor. The truth is, my husband was no happier than if Ed
McMahon appeared on our doorstep with balloons and a check for a
million. M-Man de-rusted, sanded, machined and painted until his
find glistened beneath shop lights. Then, the best part. The engine
started--sputter, sput, chugga-chug! A smoky ink-like cloud gushed
into our house.