Earlier this year, I wrote about my Dad’s life and his passing. It was the first time I wrote about my Dad in the past tense. Although he has been gone for nine months, it still seems like he went away yesterday. Or maybe last week. Reality has set in, but the hole is still there. I still miss my Dad.
Whereas I have good memories of my Dad teaching me things as a child and doing things with my Dad like Cub Scouts and making electronic doo-dads and gizmos, my best memories are of us as adults going places together. We went to concerts, ballgames, sports bars, car shows, and other assorted events.
My Dad was a car aficionado, especially of the early Datsun Zs. He owned a 1971 240Z for over 20 years and the car was pretty much a member of the family. Before a bad accident forced him to part ways with the car, his dying wish was for his car to be crushed into a cube, a hole drilled eight inches into the cube, his ashes poured into the hole, and the hole sealed so he would forever be a part of his car. Then the surviving members of the family were to put the crushed car in the living room, purchase a glass table top, and create a memorial coffee table.
I was looking forward to the day I would tell my future kids to get their shoes off their grandfather.
Alas, his beloved 240Z was totaled and claimed by insurance. He purchased a replacement car for a few years, but like replacement Dukes of Hazzard, it wasn’t the same. His passion for the replacement car wasn’t what it was for his 1971 240Z. As his health diminished, he sold the replacement. He was more depressed about his health and not having a car than he was about parting ways with his replacement Z.
When he had his original 240Z and his health was good, he would often go to the annual Z Car Convention, the national gathering of Z enthusiasts. He went to at least four of them – San Antonio, Savannah, Daytona, and Nashville. Sometimes he would drive his car and sometimes he would tow it. Sometimes he would bring my Mom and sometimes he would go with his friend.
This year, as fate would have it, the Z Car Convention was in Tampa for the first time ever. It is hard for me to articulate the coincidence. It seemed like more than fate, almost like a sign. The convention could have been anywhere in the United States – from Washington to Miami, San Diego to Maine, and anywhere in between. Instead, the event that meant so much to my Dad was scheduled to happen in my backyard. Of course I was going.
Z Car Conventions are week-long events. Attended by Z Car Clubs and fans nationwide, there are opening ceremonies, exhibitions of the latest racing engines, seminars, and guest appearances by celebrities of the Z community. Two car shows are among the highlights of the week - the first, a judged car show on Wednesday, and the second, a public car show on Saturday.
When I told my Mom about the upcoming Z Car Convention, we agreed that while my Dad would have attended all week, we only needed to go to the final public car show. That would be enough, both physically and emotionally. My Mom booked a hotel room for the final Z car weekend and we were ready.
I don’t remember what inspired me to look up the 2024 Z Car Convention. I think perhaps I was looking up Z communities in an attempt to help my Mom sell some of the car parts my Dad never got around to moving out of the garage. But I do remember tearing up a bit thinking that my Dad would have been in Tampa all week. I was missing out on hanging out with my Dad at something that meant a lot to him. I wouldn't have been at every event with him, but I am sure we would have met up a few times during the week for beer and wings and a few Z Car events. It is those missed opportunities that I miss the most.
Although my Mom and I agreed to attend only the public car show on Saturday, I decided to visit the hotel headquarters of the Z Convention on Thursday. I wanted to buy t-shirts and other swag early just in case they ran out the day of the public event. I also wanted to take in the event at my own pace, without anyone else. I didn’t know how emotional seeing all the cars on Saturday would be, so I figured getting some tears out of the way on Thursday might be a good idea.
Pulling in to the parking lot of the Embassy Suites by the University of South Florida in Tampa I immediately saw various types of Z cars. There were modern racers, show cars, and the classic models similar to my Dad’s. I was in the right place.
The impact of being among the community that meant so much to my Dad hit almost immediately. Inside the hotel lobby was a car that looked very similar to my Dad’s in make, model, and color. It had a different design on the side, but was ninety percent the same. I walked into the hotel, saw that car, and had to turn around and walk out to collect myself. I took a deep breath outside the hotel door and walked in again. Seeing that car so soon was a bit of a punch.
Once in the hotel, I found the Z Car people. They had a merch store with various swag and t-shirts. They also had two large banners and were collecting signatures of everyone who registered for the convention. After explaining my reason for being there, they let me sign the banners for my Dad. I put “RIP George Lortz ’71 240Z” on each banner. He was at the Z Convention in spirit and now in name.
I spoke with several volunteers at the hotel in both the merch room and the registration room. Everyone was very nice. They let me place my Dad’s memorial card besides different maps and images and take several pictures. They asked questions about my Dad and his car and they made me feel very welcome. Going by myself that first day was definitely helpful as I process grief better when I am around other people.
I walked out of the hotel with a smile on my face and looked forward to Saturday’s car show. Then I saw a car in the parking lot that looked ninety-nine percent like my Dad’s car. It was a pristine pearl white early ‘70s 240Z. Parked among the other Z Cars, it was sitting where my Dad probably would have parked.
I had to take a moment and catch my breath. I sat down in the parking lot next to the car for a few minutes and cried a bit. When I composed myself, I thought it might have looked a little weird for any passersby to see a grown man sitting next to a stranger’s car and tearing up in a parking lot, but I didn’t care. In a city of shoe lickers, addicts, and other assorted homeless, I probably had the best reason to be sitting in a parking lot getting emotional.
Saturday morning, I picked up my Mom at her hotel and we went to the Z Car Convention public car show. I was impressed. There were hundreds of Z cars of various makes and models and a crowd of several hundred curious and interested Z fans. There were also various vendors with official shirts and other swag. Unable to refuse a good deal, my Mother stocked up on stuff, some of which she needed, some of which reminded her of my Dad.
Walking the rows of cars, I saw many of the people I met on Thursday. Again, everyone was really nice and expressed their condolences and their appreciation that we came to honor my Dad. They listened as we told them about his car, his travels to previous conventions, and the awards he won. These were my Dad’s people. As an added bonus, we also made connections that might help us sell the rest of my Dad’s car parts.
Oddly missing from the large expanse of show-quality Zs at the public car show was the pearl white early 70s 204Z I saw in the parking lot the previous Thursday. My mother and I walked the aisles of cars several times thinking I might have missed it, but it wasn’t there. I am not sure who goes to a car convention and doesn’t bring their car to the final big event, but that car was not there.
Like the coincidence of the convention being in my city the year after my Dad’s passing, perhaps the pearl white early 70s 240Z was only in the parking lot for me to see and appreciate. Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to be at the car show for everyone. Perhaps it was a sign that my Dad was there and at the same time not there. I can’t explain it. I just have to accept that I saw that car when I did.
After lunch with my Mom at a local German restaurant that we agreed my Dad would have liked, I dropped my Mom at her hotel and went to the Buddy Guy concert in Clearwater. Buddy Guy is a legend in Blues and a performer my Dad and I had seen in concert several times. Although I have seen Buddy Guy more than a dozen times total, half of those were with my Dad. Seeing Blues legends in concert was one of our things.
Prior to dropping her off, my Mother and I debated whether or not my Dad would have joined me at the concert. She said he probably would have stayed at the Z Car Convention for the closing ceremonies and social hours. I like to think he would have joined me. Or I can think of the events as separate and think of good times with my Dad at each. While his spirit might have remained at the Z Convention, his spirit and memory also came with me to the concert. Both things can be true.
Continuing the tribute to my Dad, I ordered a Jim Beam and coke prior to the concert. Jim Beam was his drink of choice. In yet another weird coincidence, there was one and half pours left in the bottle. The bartender was kind enough to give me that little extra for free so she could finish the bottle. In bourbon lexicon, there is a term called “Angel’s share”, a small amount of the batch that evaporates during the distilling process. I like to think that little bit poured into my glass to kill the bottle was “Dad’s share”.
Overall, it was a great show and one I am sure my Dad would have enjoyed. Time hasn’t stopped Buddy Guy, who at 88 years old, is still at the top of his guitar-playing game. But alas, this might be Buddy’s last time on tour as he is semi-retiring and only scheduling dates at his home bar in Chicago. It was a great run.
On the way back from the Buddy Guy concert, I pondered going to see my bartending buddy SportsChump at his Irish pub, but my body said no. I was too damn tired. SportChump aka Chris and I have become better friends over the last few months. Not only was he the first person to write a review of my novel, he also wrote about his own Dad’s passing shortly before my Dad passed. We joined that unfortunate club nearly the same time. I knew I could visit his bar and tell him all about my day for my Dad and he would appreciate my story. Chris, consider this shout-out my apology for not visiting. I’ll swing by soon.
Although I didn’t go to a pub or a bar, I did stop by a local liquor store to pick up a nice drink to close the night. I settled on Jim Beam Black, a little less harsh and little smoother than his standard Jim Beam. My Dad would have approved.
While I was perusing the aisles, the store clerk told me they had a discount on top level bourbon. I declined and told him why I turned down the offer. He not only understood, he sympathized. He told me about the last concert he went to with his Dad, Pink Floyd in 1980. Shortly thereafter, he became a member of the club no one wants to join. As I checked out, he told me he applied the discount to the bottle I bought. A really nice gesture and a much needed conversation.
As the night ended and I sipped on a glass of Jim Beam, I reflected on the week. I was happy I could honor my Dad and celebrate his love for his Z during the 2024 Z Car Convention in Tampa. Although it was sad at times, I know he was there in spirit the entire week and especially at the car show and concert. He would have enjoyed his day.
I miss you, Dad.
