Our next door neighbour in Toronto (where I was forced to spend some time
with my parents long ago before finding my true home in the Yukon) was an
ancient Anglican minister, who drove a succession of Corvair convertibles,
none of which died a natural death. Dr. Judd had a certain panache, and
didn't like walking too much, so he would zoom up our dead-end street at
illegal speeds, and wind up on his front lawn, inches from the porch stairs.
His 50-something daughter, who had devoted her life to his care and feeding,
would slowly climb out of the smoking Corvair, looking rather green. In his
mid-nineties, they finally took away his license, and he died shortly
thereafter.

Incidentally, he confided to me that he had clear memories of the Klondike
goldrush, and had plotted to run away and make his fortune in the Yukon. If
they'd only invented Corvairs about 65 years earlier, he might have made it.


                -----Original Message-----
                From:   Norm/Ilene Tyler [mailto:[log in to unmask]]
                Sent:   Thursday, August 05, 1999 7:43 PM
                To:     [log in to unmask]
                Subject:        Re: Valiant

                Ooops!, apparently it was not a Valiant that helped us move
the piano,
                but a Corvair...Maybe we should start some Corvair stories,
particularly
                Corvair survival stories.

                Ilene