My father got the Rolls when he was 16, or so the story goes. I never saw it drive--I only have foggy recollections of it leaving in a trailer when I was very young, and not being allowed to go outside and help (watch). It was going away for five years. I think there was some sort of agreement--the guy who took it showed it around, and did some work on it, and in return he got to have it for five years.

I was made to help during it's tardy homecoming. I remeber some of the paint was cracked from being stored outside, and the back seat was covered in dog hair. The armrest covers were missing, but we found them in the waterlogged wooden trunk--they'd been used as rags. My father just kept saying how sick he felt as we struggled to get it in the barn--it didn't run.

It sat there until years later; I was home from school and helped load it on another trailer. My father had sold it, for a bit more than one year of my expensive private college. I remember him telling the people (who must have lived somewhat close by) that if they wanted any help working on it, he'd be glad to. He said this with the eagerness of a younger child asking the big kids to play, and was recieved in about the same manner.

A few months later, he saw it had sold at auction--for around three times what he got for it. It could have paid for three years of my education instead of just one. He feels sick, and I feel guilty.