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Rose was an uppity rich girl from the Montrose section of Houston.  Born beautiful. Grew up wealthy.  Had an attitude.

Jack was a devil-may-care rogue from Fort Stockton who lived by the seat of his pants, romancing young girls and living in an old cabin about fifty yards off the shore of Lake Leon.  Gambled for his income.  Had a gift for art and telling stories.  Both talents usually revolved around young women.

Couldn’t have been two more unlikely individuals to meet and fall in love in all Fort Stockton.  Yet, fate has a way of making the impossible happen.  Some said it was Jack rounding the corner of the Piggly Wiggly when Rose got a glance of him in his Citroen Mehari when she was first smitten.  Rose, her fiancée, and mother were just passing through town on their way to California for their nuptials when their Rolls Royce broke down and they were forced to take rooms in the Cattle Baron Hotel, waiting for parts to be shipped in from Dallas.

The very first night, Jack talked Rose down from the railing of the second story fire escape of the hotel in what seemed a desperate attempt to end it all over her impending marriage.  Apparently arranged only for financial benefit, Rose felt no love for her fiancé.  Later, in Jack’s arms and then the passenger seat of his Mehari, feelings were stirred deep within her she’d never felt before.

Girls over at Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern were all too familiar with those stirring emotions.  They even called them ‘The Mehari Effect’, the combination of the dashing Jack Dawson, his long hair blowing in the wind from the driver’s seat of the Mehari cruising around Lake Leon, and the stance of the vehicle itself.  A little high in the back, just like the hopes of every girl who rode in it.

In no time, Jack was squireing Rose around to the Rusty Hammer Hardware Store, The Blue Collar Pet Shop, and tempting her with treats over at The Dairy Twin, all in the Citroen Mehari and all right under the nose of her dastardly fiancé.  Rose’s mother was aghast, fearful that the dalliance would endanger the nuptials.

By Sunday evening, Rose was laying across the back vinyl bench seat, disrobed and disheveled under the old pecan tree down from the bait shop at Lake Leon.  “Draw me like one of your French girls,” she whispered.  Jack reached into the glove box for his sketch pad and charcoal pencils, checking to make sure the fire extinguisher was in place.  Things were about to get hot.

The details of what followed are best suited for a different website, but as Jack and Rose reclined in restful reflection an hour later, they saw the repaired Rolls Royce raising a ruckus on the road over the horizon, heading their direction.  Pulling up his pants, Jack positioned himself in the driver’s seat and cranked up the 602cc flat twin to make a hasty getaway.  The 7” sealed-beam headlights caught something ahead, but too late to swerve and not hit it.  

“Ice chest, straight ahead!” Rose yelled.  But it was too late to avoid a collision.  Jack swerved, but the Igloo sent the Mahari straight into the lake and the young lovers to their fate.  Rose clung to the spare tire cover, able to float. Jack’s suspenders got tangled with rope serving as a door on the driver’s side; he was drug to the bottom, along with the Mehari.

On summer nights, some still hear Celine Dion singing about the Mehari at Lake Leon.

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