Ford Resurrects a Legend

She stepped out with him, then studied the black Mustang. "You own a car."

"This is not merely a car, and to call it such is very female."

"And to say that is very sexist. Okay, if it's not a car, what is it?"

"It's a machine."

"I stand corrected."

Blue Dahlia

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By Stahlkocher - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, 
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=308499

Steve McQueen's speed machine gets a muscle-y 480hp upgrade.

The Mustang Bullitt is cool. But it would be cool whether it was called the Bullitt or the 5.0 SVO or the GT Dark Green Edition. Its coolness is innate and not tied to the time Steve McQueen ripped up the streets of San Francisco in a mean green Mustang back in 1968.

Popular Mechanics

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"So, you're into classic cars."

He settled behind the wheel. The minute he turned the key the radio exploded with Marvin Gaye. Byron turned it down to a murmur before cruising through the lot.

"Sixty-five Mustang with a 289 V-8. A car like this isn't just a mode of transportation. It's a commitment."

"Really?" She liked the creamy white bucket seats, the trained-panther ride, but couldn't think of anything more impractical than owning a car older than she was. "Don't you have to spend a lot of time babying it, finding parts?''

"That's the commitment. Runs like a dream," he added with an affectionate stroke to the dash as he merged into traffic.

Holding the Dream

Local florists brace for Valentine’s Day

"Which reminds me…"

Understanding, she smiled. "It's only the tenth, Byron. You still have time to pick up that well-thought-out, loving gift. And no matter what Kate says, don't buy her computer software. Flowers always work for me."

And no one had sent her flowers, she thought, in too long to remember. When her mind drifted to a tiny yellow wildflower, she pulled it back, and called herself an idiot.

Finding the Dream

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Despite what Alfred Lord Tennyson may have thought, a young man’s fancy doesn’t wait until spring to turn to love, but a month sooner — on Valentine’s Day.

THE CLAREMORE DAILY PROGRESS

Classic Cars

"So, you're into classic cars."

He settled behind the wheel. The minute he turned the key the radio exploded with Marvin Gaye. Byron turned it down to a murmur before cruising through the lot.

"Sixty-five Mustang with a 289 V-8. A car like this isn't just a mode of transportation. It's a

commitment."

"Really?" She liked the creamy white bucket seats, the trained-panther ride, but couldn't think of anything more impractical than owning a car older than she was. "Don't you have to spend a lot of time babying it, finding parts?''

"That's the commitment. Runs like a dream," he added with an affectionate stroke to the dash as he merged into traffic. "She was my first."

"First what? First car?"

"That's right." He grinned at her baffled stare. "Bought her when I was seventeen. She's got over two hundred thousand miles on her and still purrs like a kitten."

Kate would have said it was more "roars like a lion," but that wasn't her problem. "Nobody keeps their first car. It's like your first lover."

"Exactly." He downshifted, eased around a turn. "As it happens, I had my first lover in the backseat, one sweet summer night. Pretty Lisa Montgomery." He sighed reminiscently. "She opened a window to paradise for me, God bless her."

"A window to paradise." Unable to resist, Kate craned her neck and studied the pristine backseat. It wasn't very difficult to imagine two young bodies groping. "All that in the back of an old Mustang."

"Classic Mustang," he corrected.

Holding the Dream

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Nine Unreliable Classic Cars We Can't Help but Want

Some bad decisions are still worth making.

MSN

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She spotted the car now, a low-slung beast in shining black. “That's quite a car.” 

“It's heading toward cold tonight. I didn't think you'd want the bike.” 

She walked off the portico and had to admire the lines. Del had been right. It was very slick. 

“It looks new, but it's not.” 

“Older than I am, but it's a nice ride.” He opened the door for her. She slid in. It smelled of leather and man, a combination that only made her more aware of being female.

When he got in beside her, turned the ignition, the engine made her think of a fist, coiled and ready to strike.

“So, tell me about the car.” 

“Sixty-six Corvette.” 

“And?” He glanced at her, then shot up the drive. 

“She moves.” 

“I can see that.” 

“Four-speed close-ratio trans, 427 CID with high-lift camshaft, dual side-mount exhausts.” 

“What's the reason for a close-ratio transmission? I assume that was transmission, and the close ratio means there's not much difference between the gears.” 

“You got it. It's for engines tuned for max power—sports cars—so the operating speeds have a narrow range. It puts the driver in charge.” 

“There wouldn't be any point having a car like this if you weren't.”

Happy Ever After

You Can Garden for Nature

He'd planted something at regular intervals along the fencing. She could see tender young plants and the carefully packed mulch around them. She imagined he'd done the digging there himself.

Some sort of trailing flowering vine, she supposed, that would, in time, grow and tumble color over the fence.

A patient man, Byron De Witt, she mused. One who would enjoy watching those vines grow and bloom and tangle year after year.

And she knew he would experience a quiet satisfaction when the first bud blossomed. Then he would tend it. The man enjoyed tending things.

Holding the Dream

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Landscape by Minnetonka Landscape Architects & Landscape Designers Holm Design & Consulting LLC

No matter your aesthetic preference — from formal to informal, straight lines to wavy borders — you can garden in a way that honors and supports wildlife and the land that intersects with your landscape.

HOUZZ

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She made four trips, her Glock against her hip, her dog trotting at her heels before she began to lay out the plan she’d sketched out on chilly winter nights.

The cardinal flowers and coneflowers, the sweet-scented heliotrope mixed with airy lantana, the flow of verbena, the charm of New England asters, the elegance of oriental lilies for nectar. She had the sunflowers and hollyhocks and milkweed for host plants to tempt the adults to lay their eggs, the young caterpillars to feed.

She arranged, rearranged, grouped, regrouped, gradually veering away from her initial, somewhat mathematical layout when she found the less rigid and exact pleased her eye.

In case, she took out her phone and took pictures from several angles before she picked up her trowel to dig the first hole.

An hour later, she stepped back and checked her progress before going inside for ice to add to the tea she’d left steeping in the sun.

“It’s going to be beautiful,” she told Bert. “And we’ll be able to sit on the porch and watch the butterflies. I think we’ll draw hummingbirds, too. I’ll love seeing all this grow and bloom, the butterflies and birds. We’re putting down roots, Bert. The deeper they go, the more I want them.”

The Witness