(An excerpt from Donald D. Erwin's "My Life As I Remember It.")
I got my first car the summer I was thirteen. It cost twenty-five dollars, and was a four-cylinder 1928 Chevrolet roadster that I bought from a neighbor. It was really a junker and would just barely run, but I thought it had great possibilities. The fact that I didn’t get a title for the car didn’t faze me at the time. My father was skeptical about my acquisition, but he allowed me to keep it. It soon became apparent, however, that the Chevy was beyond hope of rehabilitation, and I sold it for scrap for twenty dollars shortly thereafter.
There was a wrecking yard, which also sold used cars, about a mile down the highway from our farm. I would frequently ride my bike through the fields to this establishment and admire the cars that were for sale. I had been working weekends digging sweet potatoes for fifty cents an hour and I was feeling flush. Most of the cars were completely out of my price range, but there was a 1927 Ford Model T light truck on the lot for fifty dollars. Now a truck wasn’t very sporty, but in contrast to the ’28 Chevy, it would run. After several visits to the lot, much tire thumping, and much haggling with the owner of the lot, I put ten dollars down and promised to pay the balance in six months.
When I drove into the yard with the Model T, I got a somewhat different reaction from my Dad than when I bought the Chevy. My father was not really a profane person, but he did have two or three favorite exclamations that he would use on occasion.
After he got a good look at the truck he said: “Shit-fire boy, what the hell do you want with that piece of junk?”
Since I had not forewarned him or my mother that I was going to purchase another vehicle I expected some reaction, but his put-down of my great Model T truck was somewhat disappointing. My father had had a lot of experience with T’s, and after he cooled down he proceeded to tell me about their many shortcomings and deficiencies.
Henry Ford’s Model T was a great car for the masses for many years, but by the late 1920’s it was technologically woefully behind the times. It did not have a conventional transmission, and there was no gearshift lever. What it had instead was a series of interior “bands” that were controlled by three separate foot pedals. The operator pushed one pedal for low and one for reverse. In forward, after the car was moving at a sufficient speed, the driver then depressed the third, or “drive” pedal, until the drive gear engaged. To slow the vehicle down, the driver pushed on the “low” pedal again. To stop, one applied the hand brake, which would disengage the low gear. Model T’s did not have a conventional foot-operated accelerator either. Instead, they had a hand-operated gas lever, like that on a farm tractor. The T’s primitive transmission system was really the forerunner of the modern automatic transmission.
It didn’t take long for me to appreciate the negative comments my father had made about the Model T. Old Henry made the last of his T’s in 1927, and while he had tried to modernize them in their last years, their popularity with the car-buying public was waning. One of the last additions was an electric starter, but most of the time it was still necessary to use the permanently attached crank to start the engine. While an expert T owner could often start one with a single flip of the crank, the engine-starting process can be hazardous to one’s health. Model T’s, like old Farmall tractors, tended to kick back when cranked, and if the person doing the cranking had his thumb wrapped around the crank handle the thumb could easily be broken. I managed to avoid a broken thumb, but I never did develop the one-flip trick. It didn’t take long, however, for me to become extremely disenchanted with my T. After about four months of frustration I negotiated an arrangement with the dealer to take it off my hands for thirty-five dollars.
I was fourteen when I got my first driver’s license. I had been driving since age twelve, on short trips to the store and such. Up until 1948, my father had never had a driver’s license himself, so the fact that I didn’t have one didn’t concern him much. When he thought I could safely drive he began to let me use his 1929 Ford Model A pickup on specific errands, and for a time I had the T mentioned above. Thus, it was on one of my trips into Madera with Dad’s pickup that I was stopped for making an illegal turn. I appeared in traffic court alone, expecting the worst. However, an understanding traffic-court judge suspended the fine for six months, with the stipulation that I get a proper license before driving again. This resulted in my getting what was then referred to as a “farm license.” At the time, this type of permit was available in California, on a limited basis, to farm children at age fourteen.
During the summer of 1946 I worked in the fruit packing sheds. However, when school was out in June 1947, Dad said that if I would help him on the farm until school started in the fall, he would give me the 1930 Ford Model A Sport Coupe that he had recently traded his 1933 Chevrolet sedan for. The Model A was what every high school freshman would drool over, a sport coupe with a rumble seat. It was blue with black fenders. I eagerly agreed when I learned that I could also drive it through the summer on Sundays, the only day of the week that I was not expected to work.
That fall, after a football game, I got drunk for the first time. There were four of us in my Model A, and we had some homemade “Dago Red” that one of my buddies had swiped from his father’s wine barrel in the cellar. I got terribly sick, and threw up all over the side of the car. Fortunately, I got home safely, and get into bed, without incident. I didn’t really drink anything again – even beer – until I was twenty-three and after being in the Marines for over five years.
In the summer of 1948, when I was fifteen, we moved back to Kansas. I drove my Model A the fourteen hundred miles or so to Oran and Flossie’s farm near Wichita, following behind my father who was driving his 1947 Jeep Station Wagon. Dad drove a steady thirty-five miles per hour, and I impatiently wanted to drive at least forty-five, but even tailing behind Dad at a snail’s pace I felt very adult and worldly. The route we followed included the old US Highway 66 from Barstow, California to Tucumcari, New Mexico. Parts of the old highway can still be driven, but it is now known as “Historic Route 66.” When I enlisted in the Marine Corps in March 1950, I sold my beloved Model A to a buddy for fifty dollars.
I went overseas in August 1950, and when I returned to the States in December 1951 I bought a 1941 Ford Tudor Sedan. There was really no comparison in the performance of the Model A and the ’41 Ford. After all, it had a V8 engine, and the dealer had even thrown in a new paint job. I felt that I was really moving up in the world. After a couple of trips home to Neodesha from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, however, it became clear that my pretty ’41 Ford was not really that dependable. After several minor repairs, I convinced myself that it made sense to “trade up.”
My next car was a light-blue 1947 Plymouth two-door sedan. I bought it at Bert Ally Ford in Neodesha. It was a good car, but I kept it only for about six months. I put a lot of miles on my cars; I went home to Neodesha two to three times a year, which was about 2600 miles round trip. I also traveled somewhere almost every weekend. Many of the trips were to Wilmington, North Carolina, about fifty miles from the base. I also went home with many of my buddies on long weekends. Ken Palmerton, one of my best friends at the time, lived in Cicero, New York, a little town north of Syracuse.
I was home on leave in 1951, when I spotted a great looking 1950 Plymouth on the Bert Ally Ford used car lot. It was nearly new, and had only eleven thousand miles on the odometer. It was a green “club coupe,” which, in the terminology of the day, meant that it was a two-door with a back seat. After driving it around the block a few times I was hooked. I traded in the ’47 Plymouth and sang all of the way back to Camp Lejeune.
The 1950 Plymouth was a great car, and had ninety-seven thousand miles on the odometer when I traded it in on a brand-new 1954 Ford Customline four-door sedan at Bert Ally Ford. My new Ford was the first model to have overhead valves, an automatic transmission, electric-powered seats, and power steering. It also had a powder-blue paint job, tinted windows, and wide white-wall tires. Being a sucker for a nice piece of machinery, I was in hog-heaven while driving back to my duty station in North Carolina. When I was transferred overseas again in late 1954, I left my 1954 Ford in Dad’s garage in Neodesha. I told him that he could drive it, but he never did. I suspect that the only time he got in it, was when he backed it out of the garage about once each month to let the engine run for a while. I was in Iceland for a little over a year, and then I was sent to Budapest, Hungary. My Ford never left his yard.
I had been in Budapest only a few weeks when I had an opportunity to purchase a 1950 Ford sedan from one of our diplomats who was returning home. It was great to have my own wheels again. I traveled all around Budapest, as well as to Vienna several times, but I also took two great driving trips while on leave. The first was to Copenhagen, Denmark, and the other was to Belgrade, Yugoslavia. I paid three hundred dollars for the car, but when I left the country almost a year and a half later I sold it to a Hungarian government agency for the equivalent of nine hundred dollars in Hungarian forints. I had to work some deals, though, to convert the local currency into dollars.
I was discharged in San Francisco in April 1957. Christa and I had been married only two weeks before, and we settled in Fresno where I soon got a job with Graybar Electric Company. I had been working for Graybar for about a year when I decided to buy a “work car.” When I drove our only car to work Christa complained of being “stuck at home.” This became a real problem only after I taught her to drive. Eventually I bought a second-hand 1947 Studebaker Champion. It was the two-door “starlight coupe” model, which had the usual front and rear seats, but with a back window that curved all around to the rear of each of the doors. It was a nice little car, with a six-cylinder flat-head engine that got excellent gas mileage. All was going well until I was broad-sided one evening about a block from home. The car still ran fine, but it had a huge dent on the driver’s side, plus the door wouldn’t open.
Almost immediately after the accident, I came across a 1948 Studebaker four-door sedan that had a blown engine. The car was in good shape otherwise, and I bought it for twenty-five dollars. The next weekend, with help from my buddy Frank Mayes, I transferred the good engine from the ’47 into the ’48. I liked the new combination even better; I always thought the “Starlight Coupe” looked kind of dumb, while the four-door looked like a “normal” car.
In 1960, I traded my trusty ’54 Ford sedan in on a new 1960 Ford four-door station wagon. We had it only a few months, however, when Christa and I separated. She went to visit her parents in Ankara, Turkey, and was gone for about five months. In the meantime, I had to pay a babysitter to care for the boys during the day and soon decided that I had to sell the new car to make ends meet. The boys and I made do with the little Studebaker; in fact, we had a lot of fun going on trips to the mountains, and even went on a couple of camping trips with it. Christa eventually returned, but now we only had one vehicle again.
Chuck Plog, one of my nephews, owned a 1953 Ford four-door station wagon, but the flat-head V8 engine had a bad main bearing. He was building a 1930 Model A street rod at the time and was going to junk the wagon, but gave it to me instead just for hauling it off. Besides the blown engine, it was somewhat trashed inside. The headliner was completely gone, and the seats needed new seat covers. I bought a rebuilt short-block from Sears, new seat covers from Western Auto, and borrowed Bud’s upholstery sewing machine to make a new headliner. After a couple of weekends, I had a serviceable vehicle.
It didn’t take long, however, for Christa to start complaining about having to drive a “junker.” At first, she had driven the little Studebaker Champion, but it failed to start a couple of times and she had taken over the ’53 Ford instead. It ran fine, but I’ll admit that it looked ragged. Christa had had a taste of the ’54 Ford sedan and the new ’60 Ford wagon, and she reminded me often that her father drove a Mercedes. It was about this time that I purchased a 1954 Kaiser Manhattan four-door sedan.
The timing was good, because the ’53 wagon had developed a slight knock, and the Sears warranty had long expired. The Kaiser was a good-looking vehicle; at least I thought so. It had great lines, a snappy 226 cubic inch L head Continental engine with a supercharger that was said to produce one hundred and forty horsepower, and it ran well. There was a problem though…it rattled like a tin can with pebbles in it.
In 1963, we purchased a 1960 Dodge Matador four-door sedan and got rid of the Kaiser. The Dodge was a nice car, but it had a big V8 engine, and it was a definite gas hog. Christa loved it though; it had an automatic transmission, and she could do her errands in style. I continued to drive the little Studebaker to work, and I had peace once again.
By and by Christa and I divorced. She got the 1960 Dodge, and I the Studebaker, and paid our bills. Eventually though, after numerous trips to the local court in Fresno, I was awarded custody of my two boys, and decided that I really needed a car that was a little more dependable than the Studebaker.
On a used car lot in Fresno I spotted a 1960 Renault Dauphine. It was black, was a four-door, and had a thirty-horsepower engine that would get about forty miles-per-gallon. I knew this because my buddy Frank Mayes had one, as did Wally Locarnini, another Graybar employee. The Renault that I had my eye on really looked sad though. The rear wheels were spread out at the bottom, making the car look like a female canine getting ready to go to the bathroom. Having recently helped Wally Locarnini fix a similar problem on his car I knew what the ailment was, and how to fix it. I bought the car for one hundred dollars, and after fifty dollars’ worth of parts, and about four hours of labor, I had a car that was worth about $1500 at the time.
In May 1966, Ruth and I were married in Carson City, Nevada. I still had my Renault, and Ruth had a nice 1960 Ford Falcon four-door sedan. We each had two boys, and neither car was suitable for two adults and four children…especially since we soon had another child on the way. The solution was a 1963 Oldsmobile three-seat station wagon, which even had air conditioning.
Shortly after Ruth and I were married I bought a 1934 Chevrolet Master four-door sedan for thirty-five dollars. It was not intended to be a regular driver though; it was my intent to restore it, but after providing for a wife and five children there was never any money left over for such frivolous things. In 1977, I sold it to Jack Vetter, a fellow Graybar employee. He was a dedicated street-rodder, but I made him promise – under threat of severe retribution – that he would keep it stock. The temptation was so great that he couldn’t keep it. He sold it to a local dentist who, Jack assures me, did restore it.
During this same period – as additional planned restoration projects – I bought a 1936 DeSoto four-door sedan, which cost me the grand total of thirty-five dollars, and a 1938 Ford sedan, which I bought for twenty-five dollars from my fifteen-year-old nephew Jim Campbell in Westminster, a suburb of Los Angeles. A neighbor had given it to him. It didn’t have an engine, but I was surprised to find the original owner’s manual in the glove box. As with the ’34 Chevy, however, there was no money available to squander on old cars, so I sold both vehicles after a couple of years. I kept the ’38 Ford owner’s manual for my collection though.
In 1967, I was transferred to Bakersfield, and in 1969, we bought a new 1969 Ford Fairlane three-seat station wagon. We traded in the 1963 Oldsmobile station wagon, which had an automatic transmission that gave me fits, so I was determined that our new wagon would have a manual transmission. At the time, however, most new car buyers wanted cars with automatic transmissions, and consequently the local Ford dealer was ordering only vehicles with automatic shifters. The salesman tried to convince me to accept one of their stock vehicles, but I stood my ground, and he reluctantly admitted that vehicles with standard transmissions were still available on special order. So…we waited over four months for our new wagon to arrive. We still had Ruth’s Falcon, so I drove it as a “work car,” and Ruth got the new wagon as a “family car.”
That summer we went on a driving trip to Kansas, and while we were gone some of the neighborhood boys broke into our house, found the keys to the Falcon, and trashed it. With the resulting insurance money, we bought a second-hand 1966 Pontiac Tempest. It had been owned by an elderly widow lady and was in near-new condition. It also had an automatic transmission, which immediately caught Ruth’s eye, so thereafter she drove the Pontiac and I started driving the new wagon.
In 1972, we traded in the Pontiac Tempest on a brand-new 1972 Ford Gran Torino Sport. In fact, we again made a special order on the factory. It was, and still is, an eye-catcher with a special metallic gold paint job. I drove the car for five years, and when Rick enlisted in the Marine Corps we gave it to him, with the understanding that it would have to come back to me when – sometime in the future – he decided to get some other vehicle. Rick drove the Torino for another five years, and I got it back when he was in college and he took over Ruth’s 1979 Ford Granada. I did a few minor things to the car, which included a new paint job in the same original color, but did nothing to alter the original form of the car. In 1989, I was transferred to San Francisco, and in 1992, to Dallas, and the car went with us. In 1996, I retired, and trailered the Torino back to California. In 2003, I began a serious rehabilitation project to bring it back to its original near-new condition. My “Sport” is still a fun car to drive. I intended that it would someday be Rick’s car again, but he died in 2009, so it is now understood that Scott will inherit it. After all, he spent a lot of time in it as a little guy.
In 1973, we purchased a used 1970 Lifetime motorhome. It was manufactured on a Dodge one-ton truck chassis, with a 318 cubic-inch engine. It was somewhat primitive, as well as under-powered. At the time, however, we thought that it was a palace, and felt privileged to have it. In those early years there were a lot of RV manufacturers, and many did not survive. The Lifetime line was one of them.
In the 1970s, the whole country was buying compact cars, and so did we. We sold the 1969 Ford Wagon that Ruth had been driving and purchased a four-cylinder 1975 Toyota Corolla SR5 coupe. It was a sporty little car. It was hunter green, and had fender flares with wide tires. It also had a five-speed manual transmission that Ruth cussed the whole time that she drove it.
When the new-style 1977 Thunderbirds arrived in dealer showrooms I wanted one in the worst way, but they were in great demand, and Jim Burke Ford was selling them at list price, so…I bought a 1977 Chrysler New Yorker instead. It was a four-door sedan, and had leather seats and a 440 cubic-inch displacement engine. It ran like a champ, but only got about twelve miles to a gallon of gas. I drove the car seven years and put 96,000 miles on it. In 1994, when I was ready to trade the car in, the Ford dealer in Bakersfield wouldn’t give me anything near what I thought it was worth, so I kept it. When I retired in 1996, I still had the car. It had been stored in our son Mark’s backyard for several years, and he was anxious to use the space for something else. I no longer thought of the New Yorker as a classic, so I donated it to a local charity in Bakersfield. I should have taken the Ford dealer’s offer.
I had always wanted a Jeep, and in 1975, an opportunity arose to buy one from one of my electrical contractor customers. It was a 1964 M38A1 Kaiser Jeep, and had been sold as surplus when the Marine Corps decided that it wasn’t needed any more. It still had its military paint job, including a big white star on the hood. It also still had the original L-head four-cylinder engine with 24-volt waterproof ignition, just like the Jeeps I had driven in Korea, and later at Camp Lejeune. We had a lot of fun taking it on short trips in the neighboring foothills…that is until the transmission went out. After that it sat in the back yard for a year or so gathering dust…until one day when Jack Vetter came by. He was in the process of building a street rod, and he took one look at my derelict and said,
“Why don’t you drop a small block Chevy in it?”
The rest, as they say, is history. Within a few weeks I had stripped the engine, transmission, and the twenty-four-volt wiring out, and installed a 283-cubic-inch Chevrolet small block V8 and a four-speed Muncie transmission and an after-market overdrive. I also added power brakes, power steering, a tilt steering wheel column, and rewired the whole vehicle for twelve-volt using a Chevrolet wiring schematic. I later installed locking differentials front and rear, as well as locking hubs on all four wheels. It was an old friend, but I reluctantly sold it in 2009.
During the late 1970s Ruth decided, since Scott was the only one of our sons still at home, that she would try selling real estate. She was taking a class in preparation for the test, and we got the cart before the horse when we decided that every real estate person needed a four-door sedan. One Sunday afternoon we went tire thumping and came home with a 1979 Ford Granada sedan. It was bright red with a grey leather interior…and it had an automatic transmission. Ruth was elated. She didn’t follow through and become a real estate salesperson, but she did end up with a new car with that had an automatic shifter.
Alas…we got carried away again three years later when we bought a 1982 Toyota Corolla. I was still driving the New Yorker, so it would be Ruth’s car. The reason for our momentary loss of direction was the fact that Rick was out of the Marine Corps and enrolled at Fresno State College. The Torino was having a few problems, and the subject came up for a replacement. We gave him the one-and-a-half-year-old Granada, and Ruth got the new Toyota. It was a pretty little car; it was white, with a moon roof and a five-speed transmission. She cussed the manual transmission, again, for another four years, at which time it had about 65,000 miles on the odometer.
Our next automotive acquisition was a 1984 Ford Thunderbird. I was disappointed when I couldn’t make a deal on a T-bird when I purchased the New Yorker, but the body style had changed, and I liked the new ones even more. It was stylish, sported a two-tone silver and gray paint job, and had polished aluminum “mags.” I imagined that I was the envy of everyone as I drove to and from work. Shortly after I took delivery I was taking D.W. “Robby” Roberts, a Ridgecrest electrical contractor, to lunch when he dropped cigarette ash on the seat and burned a hole in the fabric. I was crushed. Robby offered to pay for the repair and I took him up on the offer. From that point on I never allowed Robby, or anyone else, to smoke in my cars. Scott needed a dependable car to “go away to college,” so we let him take Ruth’s 1982 Toyota. It was a great car, but Ruth thought that she had had enough gear-shifting to last the rest of her life. We replaced her little white Toyota with a 1986 Ford Tempo. Ruth fell in love with it the moment she saw it. It was a “done deal” after the salesman let her take it home for the weekend (Ford doesn’t do that anymore).
The Thunderbird was a nice car, but it was love at first sight when I saw the new 1987 Lincoln Mark VII LSC. Consequently, after only about two and one-half years, I traded the T-bird in on a new titanium-colored Mark. I thought to myself, “It doesn’t get any better than this.” At the time Ford Motor Company was pushing their extended warranties. Their premier extended warranty was for six years and unlimited mileage. I didn’t tell them that I drove a lot of miles. Consequently, I kept the car for six years, and when I traded it in it had slightly over 160,000 miles on the odometer. During the six-year span of the warranty Ford had given me a new factory-rebuilt engine, a new power steering box, and they had rebuilt the frontend assembly…all with no deductible. Ford sure isn’t selling that type of warranty anymore.
We had sold our Lifetime motorhome when we moved from our four-plex to the three acres. The “farm” kept me busy, and we didn’t miss it at first, but eventually we began looking around for another RV. In 1989, we purchased a thirty-four-foot 1982 Pace Arrow. Although used, it had only 34,000 miles on the odometer, and it was plush compared to the Lifetime. We kept it until 2000.
In 1993, Ford Motor Company replaced the Mark VII with the Lincoln Mark VIII, and I was smitten; I had to have one. Even though I was pleased with the Mark VII, and even though it was in terrific shape as the result of the extended warranty, it did have over 160,000 miles on the odometer and it was thus very easy to convince myself that I should trade up. I really loved the Mark VIII. It had two hundred and eighty horsepower and was very responsive. It was a great car to drive, but more than that, it made me feel good when I was behind the wheel. I also imagined that it enhanced my position as a Graybar executive. Ruth even got me personalized license plates which read: GRYBAR (only six letters were allowed in Texas. During the summer of 1993, Ruth’s Ford Tempo was getting a little long in the tooth, so we traded it in on a 1993 Buick Regal. Ruth really liked her Tempo, but she loved the Regal. It was two-tone blue, and it had a luggage rack on the trunk lid. I retired from Graybar effective April 1, 1996, and we moved back to Kern County, California. The move was on us, however, and it took several trips to get everything, including all of our vehicles, moved. On the first trip, I drove the Pace Arrow motorhome, and towed the Jeep, while Ruth followed in the Mark VIII. Ruth stayed in California, but I flew back to Dallas, and there supervised the loading of our furniture on a commercial moving van. After the moving van and our goods were on the way I followed in a rented twenty-two-foot U-Haul truck with my shop tools and other miscellaneous heavy possessions. Attached to the truck was a car trailer that carried my 1972 Torino. I again flew to Dallas and picked up Ruth’s Regal, with an eight-foot cargo trailer attached, and said goodbye to Texas.
In 1996, I purchased a new Ford Ranger 4X4 pickup. It was a fun vehicle, and although I had done a lot of four-wheeling in my old M38-A1 Jeep, it did not compare to the air-conditioned cruising in my new Ranger. It was in this vehicle that I was able to live a boyhood dream of driving the Alaska Highway. During the spring of 1998 I drove all the way to the Arctic Circle.
In mid-1998, we sold the Regal to Scott and Rebecca, and purchased a new Chrysler 300M for Ruth. It was one of the first 300M’s delivered to dealers in Kern County, and it received admiring glances for several months. Ruth was very proud of her new car, and enjoyed the attention that it received.
Traveling and camping in the Ranger was great, but the camper-shell was cramped, and left a lot to be desired as far as comfort was concerned. In 1999, we sold the Pace Arrow motorhome, and I purchased a 2000 Ford Lariat F150 4X4 pickup, and a pop-up camper. In the spring of 2000, with my new truck and camper, I drove as far north in Canada as there were roads. This took me above Great Slave Lake in the Northwest Territories.
In November 2002, I purchased a 2003 Jeep Grand Cherokee from the Bakersfield dealer. We really went in to look at the Liberty, but after I drove it I was not impressed. The sales rep sensed my disappointment, however, and suggested I drive the Grand Cherokee. I was hooked. It was really a great vehicle, and we had a lot of fun off-roading in it. Our next new vehicle was Ruth’s 2005 Toyota Avalon. We were looking around for a new car for her, although she hadn’t decided on a make or model. When she saw the Avalon, however, that was the one. They were new on the market though, and one with the right equipment and color was not immediately available. So, after dickering with the Toyota dealer in Ridgecrest, California, we put down a deposit and were told we could expect a wait of several weeks. In the meantime, I went to Texas in my pickup and camper to help George Zackey wire his new home. As luck would have it the Avalon came in while I was in Texas. But no problem; Ruth took delivery while I was gone, and was grinning widely when I returned some three weeks later.
It was about 2004 that our neighbor’s son decided to sell his 1974 Chevrolet El Camino. On an impulse, I bought it. I had been watching Jack Vetter and his friends build “street rods” for some time and had caught the bug…well sort of. I really didn’t want to start from scratch and build a car from the ground up, but I did want to restore an “old car.” As Ruth immediately pointed out, I already had an “old car” in the garage, and I really didn’t have a good answer why I didn’t just work on the Torino that we had been storing and hauling around for over twenty years.
Anyway, I immediately started on my restoration project, and immediately wished that I hadn’t been so impulsive. Oh, I liked the El Camino, but I learned that one should look under the car to see how much rust there is. The El Camino had a lot. If the car hadn’t had a thick carpet Kevin, (the neighbor boy) would have been dragging his feet on the asphalt. Water had apparently been leaking in for some time, and had saturated the carpets. The only solution was to cut out the floor and insert patch panels. I also found that the fenders, behind each wheel, had considerable rust. Again, I purchased patch panels; this time, however, I had the body shop weld them in.
It was a two-year project, but I learned a lot…the hard way. I had local area shops put in a new headliner, windshield, and dual muffler system, but I removed the seat, door panels and padded dash and farmed them out for a complete restoration, and then I re-installed them. I also added a new padded carpet after I replaced the rusted-out floor panels with after-market patch panels and rust-proofed the entire floor of the car.
A local body shop did the exterior body work and the final paint job. I really think they lost money on the job though, for it really required a lot of work. The final project turned out great, especially after I installed a re-chromed grill and both bumpers, as well as new chrome wheels and hubcaps, with new wide tires.
As noted above, I learned a lot on the El Camino project and, in fact, declared that “I’ll never do that again.” But after I drove it around awhile, and basked in the complements and “thumbs up” that I received, I gradually began to tell myself that it had been a fun project.
However, since I was really – deep down – a Ford guy, I gave the El Camino to my son Mark, with the understanding that he had to store it inside.
About that time a rust-colored 1973 Ford Ranchero appeared nearby with a for sale sign on it. It really didn’t look like much…at first. Every time I left our house, and returned, I would glance over at the car. As time passed it began to have possibilities, at least in my mind’s eye. After about three weeks I stopped and asked to see the vehicle. This time I looked under the car, and even pulled up the carpet. Amazing… No rust! Even the inside of the bed was near pristine; almost unheard of for a vehicle about thirty years old. It sat there for another couple of weeks, and it seemed to beckon to me as I passed by. Finally, I stopped and made an offer – exactly half of the asking price – and I owned another car. This time, however, the restoration was a lot easier.
As noted previously, Ruth and I purchased a new Ford Gran Torino Sport in 1972; in fact, we ordered it special from the factory. When it came time to buy a new car we turned it over to our son Rick who was in the Marine Corps at the time. When he was through with it I got it back and stored it. My company moved it to San Francisco, and then to Dallas. When I retired I hauled it back to California. All this time the car was operable, and I intended to restore it, “…as soon as I get the time.” So, with my confidence growing, the Torino was my next project.
On my two previous projects I had attempted to just make them look good. This time, however, I was determined to restore the Torino to as near stock as possible. Fortunately, the Torino, like the Ranchero, had survived the intervening years without being attacked by rust. The odometer had about 125,000 miles on it, and the engine still ran fairly-well, but even so I decided to have it rebuilt. I hired a professional mechanic, on his off-duty time, to help me remove the engine and re-install it after it was returned from the machine shop. In the meantime, I cleaned thirty-plus years of grease and grime from the engine compartment and repainted it the original color. As much as possible I repaired, repainted or replaced everything under the hood. The underside of the car got the same treatment.
The upholstery was replaced to match the original, as well as the headliner and carpet. The padded dash, like those in the previous two projects, was sent to a shop in Long Beach for a like-new rehabilitation. I even had the electric clock, which had quit working some twenty-five years past, rehabilitated. The same body shop did the body work and final paint job, and it turned out better than new.
My fourth renovation project was a 1977 Mercury Cougar XR7. It had a for-sale sign on it in Bakersfield for several weeks before I stopped and looked at it. At first glance, it was a sad looking thing: the padded top was in shreds, the headliner was drooping, the front bumper was pushed back on the left side, and the grill was cracked…among other things. Two years later, however, it was an eye-catcher.
While stationed in Europe I developed an interest in European sports cars. I read all I could find about them, and followed the Grand Prix type of races then being revived. My favorites were the Mercedes of Germany and the Jaguar line built in England. I assumed that both brands were out of my league, but thought that perhaps someday I might own a Triumph or an MG. After a little research I found that my dream could, in fact, be realized. At that time, the XK150 sold for about $3400 in Europe, and that – because of my military rank – the Marine Corps would ship it back home for me. I had almost $5000 in savings; the path seemed clear. Before arrangements were made, however, I became engaged to Christa and all thoughts of a European sports car went on the back burner. Half a century later, however, I bought an XJS V12. It had only a little over 40,000 miles on it (confirmed by Carfax) and the paint and interior was original and appeared near new. It wasn’t a classic XK, now worth a hundred thousand dollars plus, but it was a Jag nonetheless.
In 2007, I traded in my 2003 Jeep for a 2007 Grand Cherokee Limited. I really loved the ’03, and felt as if I had abandoned a friend when I drove away in the new one. My memory soon dimmed, however, as I grew to appreciate all of the added features of the ’07 model. Oh well, such is life.
In August 2011, I purchased a 1930 Model A Ford Tudor from a neighbor. It was in remarkably good original condition. The interior had been replaced at some point, and it had near-new white sidewall tires. The engine ran perfect, thus indicating that it had been rebuilt at some point. I replaced the brake drums and shoes, also the soft top. After driving it the five miles to the Von’s store in Isabella a couple of times, I almost couldn’t believe that I had driven a same-year Model A some fourteen hundred miles, from California to Kansas, when I was just fifteen years old. The car was fun, and generated a lot of smiles and “thumbs up” when I drove it, but even so my interest waned after a while. I had had the car just a little over a year when a fellow just passing through offered me about four times what I had paid for it. I took his money.
My son Rick passed away in April 2009. One of the two cars he owned was a 2004 Toyota Prius Hybrid. Rick had purchased the car not for the forty-plus miles per gallon feature of the hybrid system, but because the State of California, at that time, allowed hybrids and electric cars, with a single passenger, to use the freeway HOV lanes.
It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with the Prius, so much so that when Toyota came out with the second generation of their hybrid system, with a new more streamlined body style, I bought a top of the line model of the 2011 Prius, which would average fifty miles-plus per gallon of gas. Mark took the 2004 to commute to his job sites, and we were both happy.
For 2016, Toyota brought out the third generation of their Synergy Drive System, again with a fresh body style, which was reported to be able to go fifty-five miles on a gallon of regular gas. In April 2016, I took delivery of a 2016 Toyota Prius with all the bells and whistles offered, plus 55 MPG. I love it! Again, Mark took the 2011 for the trade-in offer.
I love to drive my Jaguar sports car, so much so that I developed an itch for something else as well. I really liked the SL 500 Mercedes, and looked at a couple, when I came across a 1999 Corvette. I took Jack Vetter along to check it out. Jack, at one time or other, had owned several Corvettes. Although the car had over 100 thousand miles on the odometer, we discovered that it was in excellent condition. It was the wife’s car. Work receipts indicated that the oil had been changed, and necessary repairs had been done on a regular basis. I counted out the required hundred-dollar bills and drove it home.
In early January 2018, I succumbed to my growing urge to own a Mustang. The Corvette was sold, and I purchased 2018 Mustang GT 5.0 Premium. Short of the Shelby version, it has all of the goodies, including 460 horsepower. I’m not sure that I dare let Scott behind the wheel. I’m sure that this hot little baby will be my last hurrah.
Motorcycles – Starting in my “middle years,” I’ve owned several motorcycles. First was a 1968 Ducati. It was a great little bike, and I turned it over to my son Ronnie when I purchased a 1968 Honda Trail 90.
The ’68 Trail 90 became a “Mama Honda” when Ruth decided to take a turn. This turn of events necessitated buying another one, this time a 1969 model.
Along the way I decided that I needed a little more horsepower, so I became the owner of used 440cc BSA Victor. The engine had only a single cylinder, but it was a monster. It was fun to ride – when I could get it started.
Confidence growing, I looked with envy at the folks riding the larger bikes on the street, and at faster speeds. A 1969 BSA Thunderbolt was the answer. It was only two years old, and had a 650cc two-cylinder engine. I put about ninety thousand miles on it.
I took a step up in the off-road category when I purchased a new 1974 Rickman 250cc dirt bike. It was manufactured in England by the Rickman brothers who had been European off-road racing champions. It was a great bike for its time. I never could develop enough skill to ride it to its potential, but nevertheless had a lot of fun with it. It sat covered up in my shop for several years, but in 2009, someone offered me about five times what I paid for it, so…, I said adios.
In 1977, I bought a 1978 Honda Goldwing. At the time, it was state of the art; four-cylinder, water cooled and with a shaft drive instead of the usual chain.
As I write this (2017) I still have the 1969 Trail 90 and the Goldwing. In my Golden Years, I don’t ride either of them, but I’m reluctant to part with my old friends. One never knows when one may get a sudden urge…
All the above should be a clue to the fact that I’m a “car guy.” In fact, my idea of a good time has always been getting in a car (and at one point on a motorcycle – see Goldwing above – and driving, just driving, many times nowhere in particular. Earlier in my life, for whatever reason, I defined relaxation as driving long distances, and freedom being associated with a steering wheel in my hands and a new section of America somewhere out past the hood ornament (now long extinct) where the yellow line dips below the horizon.
My most ambitious driving trip was in 1999, and lasted five weeks. I drove (except being carried by ferry from Prince Rupert, British Columbia to Haines, Alaska) all the way to the Arctic Circle, then back through Alberta, Canada, then down through Utah to California. I slept in the camper each night, except when I was on the ferry.
My last real driving adventure was in 2000, during a month-long trip to Canada. I drove as far north in Canada as one could go (without using a winter ice-road), over the Mackenzie River by ferry, to Yellowknife on the north shore of Great Slave Lake, and then another ninety miles or so on gravel to “end of road.”
My truck and camper was last on a road trip in August 2015, when I visited my nieces and nephews in Kansas. While driving back, I realized that long driving trips weren’t as much fun as they once were.
Perhaps my “itchy-feet” aren’t as itchy anymore. On the other hand, I have made two flying trips to Europe since then; the last of which included six days of being driven around in Scotland – with son Scott – by a private tour guide. Not quite the same, but the camaraderie was great.