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Welcome Home Meg-Part II

Updated: Sep 30, 2023

Doc loved cars. He owned more in the time I knew him than I have owned in my entire 53 years on this Earth, 37 of which have passed with a valid driver’s license in my wallet. If you knew him, you understand the peculiarity of this, because, more than anyone else I have known, Dr. Moreland was a creature of routine and once he found something he liked, he stuck with it. This was made painfully evident even in his death, as revealed to me by the manager of the Cracker Barrel off Pines Road, who asked me several months after Doc’s death what had become of him, though I am sure he had already surmised the unfortunate truth I had to confirm. The staff of his establishment all came to know Doc as a much beloved regular who always tipped with two-dollar bills, just to be different, and always had a joke to tell. He loved eating there and he did so often, for many years.


Tom and Doc standing in his driveway, in front of his 1991 Lincoln Town car and one of his other many cars
Doc and I circa 1995

Different than many other aspects of his life, however, he traded cars relatively often, and no two cars he owned were alike. Except for the repeat purchase of a Genesis sedan as his daily driver for the last years of his life, he seemingly tried to buy cars in as many different variations of make, model, and year as possible: Toyota Supra Turbo (in which we drove a month-long expedition to Alaska and back!), 1962 Lincoln Continental (JFK-style), 1991 Lincoln Town Car, Volkswagen Turbo-Diesel Beatle, Mini Cooper (vintage style), 1938 Pierce Arrow, Model-T and Model-A Fords, and I believe there was a Kia (see picture at right) and maybe one or two more in there somewhere which I am forgetting by name.


He knew the one I loved the most was always his 1985 911 Carrera in Nutmeg Brown Metallic (thus, my nickname for her, Meg).

The deep brown color shown in the rear passenger quarter panel of the 911
Nutmeg Brown Metallic

He told me later in his life that he regretted selling it, though I don’t know if it was because he knew I would have loved the opportunity to be the ex-student he sold it to once I had acquired the means to do so, or because he knew how much it would have appreciated in value for him over the years. I like to think it is the former.


I don’t recall the exact first time he allowed me to get behind the wheel, but I do know that Meg was “my first” Porsche, and I will always love her for it. For years after he sold her, I remembered the smell of the leather, the beautiful exhaust note, and the responsiveness of the steering. One of my now most cherished moments with Meg was one occasion when Doc went out of town and left me in charge of house sitting, something he entrusted to me several times before I eventually became a travel companion of his, that is, until my footloose days became scarce with my admission to medical school and finally ended with the start of my own family.


On this particular occasion, I remember him telling me that I could “take out the Porsche,” if I wanted, but I also remember I was way too risk-averse to even consider it. I am still very cautious and take only carefully measured risks in my life, but at the age of 18, I certainly would not have taken a risk by driving his prized Porsche. I did not, however, have any problem showing it off to my best friend, Shane McPherson. Despite the still lingering popularity of the 1983 movie Risky Business including the driving mishap of Joel Goodson in his Dad’s 928, or perhaps because of how his U-boat excursion ended, we only sat inside without even starting it, I promise.


To do so, I first had to disable the “alarm” as Doc described it back then, which was accomplished by locating the keyhole in the side of the driver’s door, which was only visible once the door was slightly opened. I imagined an ear-piercing alarm would occur if I opened it more than just enough to turn the key, but I discovered only after purchasing the car, that it is actually a factory-installed ignition kill switch. He kept the separate key for it on the same chain as the key to the ignition. And this is how I can prove that I didn’t even start the car, whether you believed my prior claim or not.


View of the steering wheel and dashboard from driver's perspective
The drivers cockpit

We sat inside, for sure, each of us a few minutes in the driver’s seat, shifting through the gears in rapid succession and gripping the leather steering wheel as if we were driving through turns in the Austrian Alps at high speed. What happened next is what will forever attach my mark to the history of the car, and what prompted the man from whom I bought it say, “Well, it certainly sounds to me like you are the one who should own this car, not me.”


Unfortunately for me at the time, though I wouldn’t trade it for anything now, I had left the key in the lock and forgot it was there as I stepped out and closed it, this time without the usual “thud” of the precisely secure latch that I love to hear so much. Instead, I heard a metallic clank, and the door sprang back open unexpectedly. My heart sank as I realized what I had done and almost stopped when I saw the small scratch inside the B pillar.

The scratch made in 1998 with touch up paint applied by Dr. Morelan
The infamous scratch

I was so distraught about the mishap that I hastily removed the key, closed and locked the door again, and vowed a blood oath with Shane that we would never speak of this event again. I had hoped that by the time Doc noticed the scratch it would be so long removed from my involvement that I would not be suspected. I obviously didn’t know Doc well enough then to understand how absolutely laughable this hope was. He didn’t miss a thing. Ever!


Not long after his return from his trip, he asked me if I had enjoyed driving the Porsche, to which I honestly responded with the fact that I did not drive it. He kept probing for more answers about my driving and interaction with the car and finally asked me point blank, when I continued to say that I had not taken it for a drive, that if I were telling the truth, "How did the key get bent?" It was at that moment that I realized that in my haste to close the door and put the incident behind me, I had failed to see the slight bend in the alarm key. Doc didn’t fail to notice it, however, and once I told him what happened, we both went out to car, and I was forced to tuck my tail between my legs and fess up to the scratch he had already seen, too. This experience resulted in my learning that taking responsibility for one’s mistakes and telling the truth about them was part of being a man of good character, and it was one of the many lessons Doc taught me in my life.


He drove his little brown Porsche the half-mile from his house to school almost every day, and it was iconic at Captain Shreve during those years. We drove it almost exclusively whenever we would drive around Shreveport together. Sometimes he would let me drive, sometimes I enjoyed just being a passenger and appreciating the sounds and feelings of inertia without having to drive. Sadly, as is the story of many first loves, our lives took different paths after Doc sold his beloved 911 in about 1993 to a former student of his. Tim O’Dell had been a student of his when he taught high school, I believe (though I am not certain of this), and he had moved to Ohio as a senior VP of Fifth-Third Bank at the time. Doc would call Tim from time to time in the years after the sale just to check in and I was present a couple of times when he would do so. He always inquired about the car, and I remember Tim saying that he didn’t get to drive it as much as he would like, but that it was safe and sound in his garage.


Knowing how way leads on to way, it is not surprising that once out of sight, Meg was eventually out of mind, too. Medical school, internship, my time in Utah as an Air Force general practice officer, residency, and the never-ending responsibilities of a job, marriage, and rearing two small boys while doing all of the above, pushed Meg from my everyday consciousness. I never forgot about her, though...



My third and final blog installment will complete the circle. If I have kept your attention this far, it is a story worth reading. I hope you come back for it.


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