My father was 5 foot, 2 inches tall. Or, as he liked to say, “5-2 and three-quarters!
My father was 5 foot, 2 inches tall. Or, as he liked to say, “5-2 and three-quarters!”
His name was Ronald Short.
He immigrated to the U.S. from England, where he had been trained on handling environmental hazards such as asbestos and lead paint before the widespread movement to clean up such hazards was underway in this country. He saw an opportunity and he took a great risk, moving his family with two young children to Massachusetts, where he initially swept floors to make ends meet.
My dad eventually started a business specializing in asbestos removal and lead paint abatement. He pushed himself to extremes, building a successful business that employed many people and eventually was chosen to remove asbestos from the USS Constitution in Boston Harbor. His business also was chosen to complete lead paint abatement in Boston’s historic capitol building.
The hard work and stress of owning a business came with consequences: he suffered a major heart attack at age 38 and had subsequent heart attacks in his 40s. His doctor urged him to give up the business and move to a warmer climate.
As a child during the WWII German blitzkrieg of England, my father grew up in a frugal family experiencing the same food rationing as other families of that era. He carried his pound-pinching ways into adulthood, including his penchant for buying only used cars or trucks and driving them until they were beyond repair.
His escape was through a passion for auto sports, and for one car in particular: the Jaguar. Perhaps it represented the life that never seemed attainable for his family during the dark days of WWII. He bought his first Jaguar in his 50s while he was working as an environmental engineer for the Pasco County (Fla.) School System, primarily for the health insurance that partially offset the cost of his $2,000-a-month heart medications.
Around age 55 and with his heart continuing to affect his energy level, stamina and ability to enjoy the fruits of his labors, he was faced with what seemed to be a life-or-death surgery to deal with another blocked artery in his heart. While my father did not say so directly, I believe he thought there was a real chance he might not survive the surgery.
A few days before the surgery, and probably seeking a distraction, he went to a car lot in St. Petersburg, Fla., where he spotted the car of his dreams: a white, 1994 Jaguar XJS convertible. He called my mum, Lynda, and asked if she would be okay with him making the purchase. Then he proceeded to lower the roof (the canopy, as we Brits call it) and spend hours driving around in the early spring warmth of the coast near his New Port Richey home. I imagine he was enjoying the feeling of being alive, pushing aside thoughts of the risky surgery he was about to undergo.
Once in the OR, his luck took a different path. The surgeon deemed his heart too damaged for another coronary artery bypass. They stitched him up and, when he awoke, told him his only remaining option was a heart transplant.
My father had no interest in a transplant, choosing instead to live his life to the fullest during whatever time he had remaining. He enjoyed his grandchildren, doing everything he could to make them feel special, including dressing them as little pirates and leading them on a treasure hunt with a map he swore he had attained from Blackbeard himself. After hours of the children solving clues, Grandpa Ron (also dressed as a pirate) would supervise as they dug up an actual treasure chest buried deep in his yard (what a coincidence!).
He also continued to work, taking great satisfaction in helping to improve indoor air quality of the county’s schools. And he enjoyed his Jaguar, driving it to and from work and taking Lynda for pleasure trips along the coast on weekends.
His heart, so full of love for his wife, his children, grandchildren and for the joy of being alive, gave out not long after he came home from work on a Friday afternoon in New Port Richey. He was standing in front of the stove, holding a glass of wine and cooking dinner when it stopped beating.
The thought of the Jaguar going back to the dealer made me want to cry. This was my father’s car! I convinced mum that the car should stay in the family, and that’s where it has remained since my father died in January of 2002.
We moved from Florida to the mountains of western North Carolina recently, and don’t really have the right place to keep the car garaged anymore. Nor do we get many opportunities to drive it, so we are ready to make a donation in honor of Ronald Short’s legacy. We want his Jaguar to support public radio and the wonderful stories that are told on NPR, as well as the news coverage and all the shows that make us so happy, including Wait Wait … Don’t Tell Me! And, of course, my father’s favorite: Car Talk (even if, like my dad, the show is now only available on reruns!).
I believe that my dad and Click and Clack would have loved hanging out together. They shared a great sense of humor and a love of cars. I wish the Tapett brothers were around to discuss the sometimes quirky personality of the XJS, but I know for certain they would have understood and appreciated the thrill that car gave my father. Now it’s time for the car to give someone else a thrill -- and to support public radio.
Melanie donated a 1994 Jaguar XJS to Blue Ride Public Radio through the Car Talk Vehicle Donation Program.
Thank you, Melanie!
Filed under: Jaguar, Blue Ride Public Radio