Edgy Mama

MILLS RIVER — You’d be surprised how many people have an old English car rusting away in their driveway or backyard, according to Jennie Kipling, co-owner of Old English Cars, a business that restores and repairs these vehicles.

“When people finally have the money to fix up their cars, they come in here with a big, long list, and the list just gets longer and longer,” said Tony Kipling, co-owner.

The Kiplings, both 36, started their business last July in a warehouse off N.C. 280.

The spacious garage is filled with the partially restored and stripped-down bodies of about 10 old British cars, including a Morris Minor, a couple of Austin Healeys and a Land Rover.

In addition to towing rusted cars out of fields and garages around the Southeast, the Kiplings import, restore and resell British cars that are 25 years old or older. After restoration, the couple typically sell them on eBay. Car enthusiasts from Seattle, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire and Florida have purchased their cars.

“They’ve bought from all corners of the U.S.,” Tony Kipling said.

The Kiplings met 15 years ago when they both worked for a Land Rover dealership in England. The couple moved here in 2000 when Tony took a position as a technician for the Asheville Land Rover dealership. The Kiplings are now permanent residents of the United States.

“I think our British accents help,” Jennie Kipling said. “People know we’re the real thing.”

Kipling notes that it’s difficult for him to estimate how much restoring a particular car will cost until he’s stripped it down and examined it closely. He doesn’t ask for money up front, but communicates about costs with clients throughout the restoration process.

“We find that we spend so much time with our customers that they tend to become friends,” Jennie Kipling said.

The Kiplings are now restoring two cars owned by Derek Cook of Fairview: a 1959 Austin Healey “bug-eyed” Sprite and a 1971 MGBGT.

Cook picked up the Sprite at a junkyard 10 years ago, and “it’s been a work in process ever since,” he said. He spends every Friday working on the car with Kipling at the business.

“Now I have the money to buy the cars I wanted when I was young,” Cook said. “I’m just happy Tony’s doing this. He knows what he’s doing. I’ve learned a lot from him.”

The two met at a get-together of The British Car Club of Western North Carolina, a nonprofit devoted to celebrating these sports cars.

Tony Kipling also works as a driving instructor at the Biltmore’s Land Rover Experience Driving School.

He owns and races a 1964 Austin Healey Sprite and placed fifth in the 2006 South Atlantic Road Racing Championship.

I’m single Mom all week, and I’m finding balance difficult. I should be writing my biz profile for the newspaper right now. But I’m writing here instead. Because I’m feeling neglectful of you, my pretties.

We now own a pretty little fishie, whom my boy has named either Scratch or Electric. Or both. He’s a Betta fish, and mostly maroon, but with purplish-blue fins and sides.

About 24 hours after Scratch was ushered via plastic baggie to his lovely new home, I walked into the boy’s room to find Houdini sitting on the shelf next to the fish tank, gazing lovingly at our new pet. The cat had on his “isn’t this interesting?” look–his small head cocked sweetly to one side. Ever so gently, he placed a paw against the side of the tank.

Luckily, there’s a mesh top that fits on the tank, which I don’t think even Houdini can pry off. And we have, of course, overcompensated, and filled a medium-sized tank with enough water for several small fish as opposed to just one. So I don’t think the cat can push the tank off the shelf. Which is good, because it’s directly above the boy’s bed.

I tried to get a photo, but as soon as Houdini saw me with the camera, he scrammed. He clearly didn’t want me to have photographic evidence linking him to the fishie. Just in case.

Scratch ain’t a dog, but he’ll do for a while.

That’ll be all, pig.

for all the birthday wishes. I had a great weekend: time alone, time with dear friends, and time with loved ones. All that and a neighbor thought I was turning 34 (just add nine). What more could a girl ask for?

The only blip in my lovely weekend was that the Tarheels choked and lost to Georgetown in overtime. My girl was despondent–crying on my shoulder at Asheville Pizza Company. And yes, we ate pizza for dinner. But it was good pizza–the Sheer Delight, which is a yum concoction of pesto, portobello shrooms, walnuts, and gorgonzola cheese. And we got basketball and micro-brewed beer with the za.

Plus, S.C. might be coming to town in a couple of weeks, and he’s promised to feed me Indian food.

My birthday is March 25. On the Catholic calendar, it’s the day of the Feast of the Annuciation. In other words, the day that the angel Gabriel came down from the clouds, scared the you-know-what out of a poor Jewish girl, AND told her she was carrying God’s kid. Nine months to the day later, we celebrate his birth by putting live fir trees in our house and courting a fat, bearded man with milk and cookies.

Anyway, I’ve always liked that my birthday is a feast day. Everyone’s birthday should be one. Not that I need an excuse.

So the kids have been talking about what we should do, as a family, on my day. I overheard my girl going through the options.

“Well, Mom really likes her computer…” I know she’s thinking, “When Mom’s on her computer, I can’t go to Webkinz world, so forget that.”

Then she says, “Mom likes books.” I imagine a day where we all sit around reading. That’s my vision of heaven. Books, yes. Give me books. Better yet, a gift certificate from Malaprop’s.

I hear her say, “Mom really likes her camera.” There’s a pattern emerging here, I think. All the things that she thinks I really like don’t necessarily include the kidlings. Hmmmmmmmm.

Then I hear her quiet voice. “Mom kind of likes baseball. That’s it, we’ll go to a baseball game!” Then the realization hits her. “I really like baseball,” she says.

“Yeah,” chimes in the boy. “I don’t think Mom wants to go to a baseball game.” Hurrah, I think, he’s starting to get sarcasm!

More musing. “Mom likes to go out to eat! Let’s take her out and she won’t have to cook.” This sounds promising.

“Marco’s or Mellow Mushroom?” asks the boy, offering the two local pizza joints we frequent.

At this point, I have to intervene. “How about we try a new restaurant. One that Mom really wants to go to?” I know I’m wheedling when I start talking about myself in the third person.

“What kind of restaurant?” asks the boy, fear lighting up his hazel eyes.

“How about an Indian restaurant?” I say.

“Nooooooooooooo!!!” Screams of terror emanate from their tiny bodies. I must have misheard myself. Did I just threaten to make them drink poison? Did I ask them to give their allowance back? Did I try to force Vindaloo down their soft throats?

The drama continues for several minutes. Forget the fact that this is about MY birthday, and I should get, just once, to make a unilateral decision. As always, the noise does me in.

“Okay, okay. We’ll go somewhere where there’s pizza, french fries, or waffles. Okay.”

Slowly, the noise level decreases, though the boy is still hiccupping back sobs.

Do you think I could ask the chef at Mela could make waffles out of pappadum flour for my kidlings? After all, it’s my birthday.

Doesn’t that feel good?

I’ve written before about dogs and dog love and my son’s all-consuming desire for a dog. I’ve written about our failed rescue experiment with the beautiful but wild Australian cattle dog, Scout, who is now happily chasing goats on a farm (really!), instead of chasing my poor kittys and jumping our fence to chase cars on Merrimon Avenue (above–the only time the dog was happy in his crate). I did save his life, I did! Of course, in my WCS (worst case scenario) moments, I worry that I gave the poor dog to Satan worshippers who slowly tortured him to death in unspeakable ways. Fie my vivid imagination.

Anyway, the boy still talks, constantly, about dogs. He notices every dog that crosses his path and describes them to us in detail: “Did you see that dog? He was black and white and had a brown nose and a fluffy tail. He was sooooo cute!”

E-spouse, however, is severely pet-impaired. He never had a great childhood dog. He doesn’t get pets. He likes our cats now, but that’s only because in comparison to Scout (the failed experiment) they are incredibly low maintenance. And quiet.

So whenever the “next” dog discussion comes up, E changes the subject quickly. As quickly as you would neuter a dog who was humping all the neighbor’s bitches.

Yesterday, I was driving the boy home from school yesterday and he suddenly asked: “Mom, can we get a dog when Daddy dies?”

How do you answer that question? Well, we’re going to buy a fish tomorrow.

The new cereal bar, eaties, was the highlight of the kidlings’ weekend. They got to sit on sofas, watch old Three Stooges’ cartoons, and eat sugared cereal. Heaven!

You can check out shots from the geeky but fun “Day in the Life of Asheville” photo get-together here, which was a highlight of my weekend.

Photographers are total gearheads. E-spouse is getting nervous about my foray into freelance photography. Yes, I’ll probably spend more on gear than I make from taking photos this year. But you never know!

And I’ve posted some new photos to Flickr.

So, how was your weekend?

These dudes were walking around downtown last Sunday, dressed like Jesus, I suppose, and carrying a copy of the Wall Street Journal and the Bible. They said their goal was to protest the mixing of money and religion.

Some other young dude got so fired up that he decided to join them by removing his shirt and borrowing one of their blankie wraps.

I had a chat with a videographer who was following the dudes around and learned that they’re Warren Wilson students (of course) and the Jesus-look alike was doing this for a performance art class.

Nice guys. They were having fun, particularly given the reactions of some of the young women walking by.

This is Michael Franti and his band, Spearhead. Last night, they played a sold-out gig at The Orange Peel downtown. BEFORE their gig, they set up on the street behind the Peel and played several songs, because, as they said, “Everyone deserves music!” So coooool.

Franti also passed a bucket to support Veterans for Peace and promised he and his band would match whatever was collected from the impromptu crowd. Why? Because when Franti’s tour bus parked, the first thing he saw was this billboard that sits directly behind the Peel.

I just happened upon the scene, like most of the folks there. Luckily, I had my camera with me. Way to spread peace and love, Michael! Thank you for the music!