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.

Vehicle Maintenance or Trade

You need new rubber for the vehicle, or perhaps the battery is tired.

Or just maybe you can convince yourself that a new car is in order.

Buick makes the point that it is third in sales yielding first and second places to "smaller cars."

 If you think the budget cannot handle a new car, perhaps a nice four-to-five year old Ford or Chevy at $395 to $595.  Plenty available.

What are they asking for a four-year old Malibu these days?

A Many Years' Trip from South Bend to Perfect

I had just stopped for the light when this pretty little blue Avanti made a left in front of me and parked on the street behind me.  Now, normally I might have swung around the block to stop and get a better look, but it was cold and I was in a bit of a hurry.  Why would a man of my advanced years be in a hurry?  Waal, one never knows how long he has left.  But I digress.

I knew that the light was a 150 second wait from my position, so I grabbed the camera and snagged this shot.  Seems the lady on the sidewalk found the vehicle to be of interest, too.

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.

Vehicular Fun

As an old acquaintance of mine used to say, "Hah. Friday the thirteenth falls on Tuesday this month." I actually thought it a rather silly thing to say; still do. Yet I have adopted it myself, inasmuch as I have decided that a feeble attempt at humor is better than no humor at all.  (File in "Lame Jokes" folder.)

As I was riding my bike around town a few days ago, I happened upon a car show.  I had not been aware that the event was taking place in our town, since I am somewhat out of the loop.  Serendipity.
I strolled around enjoying the display of old iron (and fiberglass, in some cases).  I took several snapshots, but my offering here makes it clear which vehicle was my "Best of Show" choice.

I rather liked the old Nash, too.

Don't see many of them; never did.

When I was a teen, Dad drove a '39

Nash for a while.  Borrowed it while his 

wrecked '41 Chrysler was being 

repaired.  Whole other story.

'36 Ford

I spotted this '36 Ford across the parking lot.  Clearly it was a Ford, and I was able to identify the model year by the distinctive rear bumper and tire cover.  By the time I had camera in hand, the driver had entered and started the car.  As I raised the camera, a truck came between me and the subject, the Ford backed out of its space and took off across the lot.  The shots are at a distance and cropped.

My interest extended beyond the fact that this was a nicely restored example of the marque.  When I was about eight years old, my dad traded his '28 Chevrolet for a '36 Ford.  Rather than the five-window coupe, though, he had a more sedate sedan, befitting his position as minister and his needs as a family man.  Dad drove this car through WWII, trading it, as I recall, in 1947 for a '41 Chrysler.  The speedometer did not work, and I recall that Dad timed his travels against his wristwatch.  Reading a sign that would say, for example, "Peyton 21" he would plan to be in Peyton in 21 minutes.

In the bottom picture, note the three chrome strips along the side of the hood.  There are three on the other side as well.  In our town, there was a young man who had a similar Ford.  Dad's car had the chrome strips, the youngster's car did not.  He was envious.  He had cash.  Dad needed cash more than he needed chrome strips.  He sold the six items for what he thought was a good amount of money.  I don't remember how much it was, if I ever knew.

Another '36 Ford entered my life during my teen years.  My best friend, Wes, bought one during our senior year of high school.  I took my first ever driver's exam in that car.  I did not get a car of my own, though, until I was 21.  It was a five-year old 1950 Ford with nearly 100 thousand miles on her.

What, or Who is the Antique Here?

Porky's Show and Shine Saturday morning in the park.  This is ostensibly an "antique" car show, and some very pretty vehicles there are, too.   The problem for me is the definition of  "antique."  At the time I first got interested in cars, I thought of antiques as vehicles which were built pretty much before I was born.  (Please understand that some of our friends and neighbors owned Model A Fords which were their principal drivers.  A nearby neighbor had a 1938 Dodge pickup truck which was practically a new vehicle.)

At any rate, as I cruised through the park I noted that most of the vehicles on show were straight from an era which represented the cars I was driving in my forties and fifties.  What?  Well, it seems that this state has long defined antique vehicles as those that are twenty-five or more years of age.  This would make the 1987 Buick Grand National, yep, an antique, and certainly all specimens from the seventies qualify.

I'm telling you, things just aren't what they used to be.

This I would consider "antique."  It was made the year I was born.

Oldies But Goodies

 About time for another car post.  The Volkswagen van belongs to a resident in our Park in Rockport.  I snapped pictures especially for my friend, Heide, who owned just such a van for many years.  Hers was the same color as this one!

 This car is parked daily in our downtown lot.  It brings back memories.  This is a Studebaker Lark, I believe 1962.  I particularly like that it is not restored to show car condition, but it is very nice.  It is used daily as a driver.  That is what should be done with good old cars, imo.  The tires are not original but rather are updated for proper highway use today.

The memories are of my days in Seattle, long ago.  I was driving home one day when just north of 45th on Roosevelt Way I saw a new Lark being unloaded at the dealership.  So I stopped.  The Lark was introduced by Studebaker in the '59 model year, so this little red gem I stopped to look at was new to the market.  Very eye-catching.  I fell into conversation with the dealer, and the upshot was that he suggested that I join him on the lot and engage in the selling of automobiles.

Salesmanship of the sort needed to persuade someone to buy an auto is not one of my skills.  I was useful on the lot, though, performing such tasks as sweeping, buffing, and collecting the exterior chrome pieces from the floor-boards of the cars. When the assemblers where unable to keep pace with the assembly line they apparently opened the door and chucked the pieces into the car, leaving the completion of the assembly to the dealer.  I gained a new understanding of the sticker line that read "Dealer prep."

Fortunately for my wife and child I had not quit my night job.

Hot Cheetos

I put three one-gallon jugs in the bike basket and rode the two short blocks to the corner convenience store to fetch water. No broken crown. As I alit from the bicycle, I spotted a gentleman readying to pull away from the pump. He saw me fumbling for my camera. He stopped and asked if I wanted a picture. Indeed, I said. He posed, I snapped. Then he said, as he opened the door and got out, "Here, let me get you with the car." What a guy!

So I posed beside the vehicle and he took the camera. Since my equipment is a bit tricky, a function of its age, not of design, he had a bit of difficulty. In fact, the final product rather left half of me standing by the car. That's okay; it is the thought that counts.

We had a nice conversation, mostly about cars, of course, and he told me he had several old vehicles, including a '58 Impala. He told me where he lived and gave me his phone number, telling me to drop by and take a drive. Thanks, Darrin. Nice guy and proud of his vehicles.










Hot Cheetos is powered by Ford 302. Restoration by Darrin, paint by a friend.