Rear View Mirror

How does one become the odd figure I've become over the years? How is it I drive and wrench on a forty-horse Model A coupe in the age of maintenance-free hundred-horse economy cars? Hard to say exactly what part nature plays in how we turn out versus the role of nurture. As for nurture, I don't recall any real mechanically nurturing facets to my upbringing. No father-son engine rebuilds or restorations in our garage.  Later, in high school, I got a motorcycle, and a '65 F-100 four-wheel-drive. Everyone knows dirt bikes break down and the old Ford was always in need of something which, it seems, it was in my nature to try to fix myself. I do recall working on my Hodaka Super Rat and the '65, but mostly from necessity rather than pleasure. Also, function was important, certainly over fashion. I kept my machines clean but never really worried about scratches and dents.

Wherever we lived lurking in ever greater stages of disrepair was Dad's old '28 Model pickup. I recall a sense of veneration for this vehicle pervading the fellowship of Dad, my brother, and myself. Though it rarely rarely ran, ir remember feeling that we were lucky to have the old truck in our possession. Attached to it was a warm vague feeling of having something good. We has something special that no one else had.  Despite Dad never having had much more than a sniff at prosperity during my upbringing (though he is doing well these days.) he drug that truck around with us as a testament to his belief that in better days he'd have the time and resources to restore his prize.  

Thus, since  he was our living hope at the time, and since he loved that Model A,  I loved it too. I played in it. Slid down it's fenders, and peeked at it through the junk in the garage all during my childhood. I actually only have two passing memories of the Model A in running condition. In one, my brother and I are riding in the bed. Dad is driving down a little hill and I'm standing peering through the missing roof down through the missing floorboard at the blacktop passing beneath the transmission. Dad turns the motor off and coasts for a second and then hits the switch and a great backfire thrills me to the bone. The other is of Dad filling the radiator with hot water on a cold snowy morning while I watch from the front window.


Perhaps 25 years ago I finally had moved into a rental with a small garage. One morning I called my dad with an offer. In appreciation for his supporting me through college, I'd restore his Model A for him with the understanding that when he passed on I'd use the truck to drop him off at the cemetery then I'd head on home with it. Guess I underestimated his attachment to the vehicle. His response was short and negative. Some months later he called up to tell me that he'd picked up another Model A that he'd like me to have. I've been the happy owner of a '28 coupe ever since. Dad and I often swap Model A stories and advice. I regularly call him as I drive it to work. He seems to like the sound of the car in the background as we catch up.

Around the same time my dad came across a '30 pick up and gave it to my brother. My brother recently relocated and decided to offer his Model A to me for a very reasonable price. With my wife's enthusiastic support we plunked down the cash and now I have a full stable of vintage Fords.