Conversations with Random People --29 #T

 Perfect afternoon for a bicycle ride and I was taking full advantage of it.  Probably the longest ride I've had this year.  I happened upon a Ram truck with a trailer in tow pulled over to the curb.  Gentleman was checking the straps and ties that secured an old pickup truck weather-worn and from another automotive era.  I stopped.

"Nice set of old wheels," I remarked.

"I see you are a Ford man," the gentleman replied.

"Indeed, I had one much like that.  Mine was a '52."

"This one," he informed me, is a '46 or '47, not sure which."

In a flash and without thinking about it I said, "Forty-seven."

"You're probably right."

(You see, without bidding it to happen I was suddenly my thirteen-year old self who would have instantly known the distinctions between the two years even though I had certainly not thought about that in the past seventy years.)

So I deliberately turned my attention to the windshield.  Yep, flat one-piece.  Confirmation, for I was certain for no reason that I can pinpoint that the '46 still used the prewar two-piece windshield.

"Where did you find this one?" I asked.

"Here.  Well, locally.  Elwood, I think.  I am hauling it to Ohio for my brother."

"That's cool."

He pointed out a few features of the old truck, I told him a bit about the one I had.  He slyly drew attention to his tow vehicle, secretly hoping, I suspect, that I would admire it, and I did.

"Welp, I'd better get along," the man told me.  "Thanks for stopping and visiting with me!"

"My pleasure!  Be safe."

(And if you are wondering, yes, as soon as I got home I used the interwebby thing to look at the '46 and the '47. 

 '47, one-piece; '46, two-piece.)

My '52 nearing completion.

Idling away the time at the car dealership

 Paid a visit to the Ford Home today.  Paid the bill and drove home.

Two black beauties parked in the showroom, a Mustang and a Cobra  GT 350.

Grille work.  I can't recall the number of times I have laid that stuff inside the form in building a concrete pad.  But whatever captures the designer's imagination.

Trust me, this beast was all black with the exception of the chrome snake and the GT designation.  The white wall on the tire does not show at all to the naked eye.  The camera sees all, though.

Oh, jsyk, I've zero intention to drop $64K on a kar.

Backyard Mechanic #T

I saw the motto and knew instantly what was being advertised-- brand name and all.

How long has it been since you saw an ad for piston rings?  Everyone, well, nearly everyone, owns some but no on gives them a second thought.  That is unless he is a combustion engine mechanic by profession.

Back in the. . .  Well, you know, when I was a lad it was not uncommon for the family vehicle to develop a bad habit of belching smoke due to worn piston rings, among possibly other causes.  It was also not uncommon for Pops, or Daddy by whatever moniker he was known in the household to purchase a set of piston rings and a few other things, pull the car under the shade of the elm, and proceed to correct the problem.

This just isn't done anymore.  Isn't necessary, and scarce is the man who has the know-how to accomplish the task.  We resolve our automotive issues in different ways these days.  But here is a brief story, true story, a memory from my kidhood, circa 1945.  Faithful reader Vee will verify or correct the date.

Little sister having been stricken ill was hospitalized and the appendix was removed.  Daddy had a real concern regarding payment of the accompanying medical bills.  I think I remember numbers, but in the interest of correctness in reporting I shall tell the story without naming dollar amounts.

Dad had access to a small amount of cash but not enough to meet the obligation.  A new neighbor recently moved into town had a 1934 Ford sedan he wished to sell.  But the little V-8 engine was afflicted with the problem cited above, along with other foibles.  Father bought the car, pulled it into a garage on the back alley, and disassembled the engine, laying the parts carefully on the workbench.  We were cautioned, nay warned, that to touch, move, knock over, or in any other manner disturb this arrangement was to put our very lives in peril.  Kidding.  Dad did not threaten our lives, but he made it clear that we might wish we were dead if we messed up his work.

He bought piston rings, some bearings, and whatever else he found he needed, cleaned the old engine, rebuilt it and reassembled it.  He sold the car for enough money to recover his investment and pay off the medical bills.

Hastings had nothing on my father who was also "tough but gentle."

The '41 Chrysler #T

Shelly suggested that I might present a story about the Chrysler I mentioned a week ago.

My father made his 1936 Ford tudor last throughout the war years.  But he very nearly ran the wheels off it, and thus by 1946 he was feeling the need for a better vehicle.  I am sure he would have liked a new car, but since Detroit had made no cars since early 1942, now that production was beginning again, everybody wanted a new car.  There were waiting lists at all dealerships which had the names of those who thought they could afford to buy new.

Someone of his acquaintance had a 1941 Chrysler Royal Club Coupe. It carried six passengers comfortably.  Father bought the car.  I think I am correct in recalling that he paid $1500 for it, or it may have been that he paid $1300, then had to spend another $200 for repairs.  According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, that is equivalent to $18,176 in today's money.  Dad's salary that year was one hundred dollars per month, and thus he spent his income for a year and a quarter on this set of wheels.

The car was a beauty.  The picture shows the correct color, although it was not two-tone, but rather all green as the lower body.  This was the first car I ever drove.  I still remember cutting a corner too short on a right turn, running over the curb with the rear wheel.  Dad, in his calm voice, observed, "You cut the hind leg off on that one."  Good times.  My father was an excellent teacher, economy of words his style.  And that is a good thing, for I do not remember ever being "yelled at" while behind the wheel and he beside me.  He taught me how to parallel park in one lesson on a street in downtown Boulder, Colorado.  By following his instructions, which I still follow to this day, I parked it correctly on the first pass.  Still can do.

This was to be the story of the '41 Chrysler, and look.  I have already made it about me.

It was, I think, in summer 1949 and Mother and Father were on their way to Pueblo for a church meeting.  I was working, so my knowledge of the incident is second-hand, as I got it from Dad.  They were almost to their destination when they came to the intersection of highway 85, on which they were traveling, with highway 50.  The stop sign made it clear that it was Dad's responsibility to allow right-of-way to the cross traffic.  He started to slow, gauging his speed and the distance, applied the brake to stop, but instead of stopping, the car skidded right in front of the car coming from his left.  This event is referred to as a collision.

According to the parent, the newly-laid pea gravel on the surface of the tarmac served the function of marbles beneath his tires, and the rest was his responsibility for failure to yield.  The car was in the shop for quite some time, and hence the borrowed '39 Nash became a part of our daily routines.

Finally, though, the Chrysler returned home, and Dad was never happy with it from that day on.  First of all, though it had a new paint job, the color was not quite right.  It was green, yes, but it seemed to have a sort of aqua tint.  But that was not the prime reason for discontent.  No.  The problem was, that in spite of all the subsequent efforts by the mechanics, the car ran down the road crooked.  Oh, it stayed in its lane, but its rear wheels ever after tracked to the right of the front wheels.  It looked, how can I put it?  It looked like a cattywampus old hound running down the road.

It was not long before the car was traded away.  Dad got his first-ever new car, a 1950 Ford Custom fordor.  This car became my first car in 1955.  I traded it in 1958 after it had traversed more than 123,000 miles.