My daily driver in high school, was a 1974 Ford Pinto. OK, before you start in on Pintos, they were actually good, tough little cars. By today's quality standards, they were great little cars.
The red '74 on the left is mine. The tan '73 on the right is my friend Mark's. Mine was basically stock, except for stereo, wheels, and the front spoiler. Mark's was the first "tuner". Seriously, he was 2 decades ahead of his time. He had a thumping stereo, chrome wheels, front and rear spoilers, hood scoop, aftermarket mirrors, aftermarket steering wheel, and a built engine including performance cam, performance carburetor, a header, and aftermarket exhaust with a low restriction muffler and dual, chrome, box tips that stuck out under the license plate. Sounds like one of today's tuners to me.
Anyway, the point is my cheap car meant I could spend some time and money on my truck. By the time I was in college, I had done the following: Taken the body apart and primed it in gray; warmed over the flathead engine with aluminum Offenhauser heads and intake with 2x2 bbl. carbs; replaced the bucket seats with the original, recovered; replaced the steering wheel with the original; repaired the hole in the roof from the sunroof fiasco; added dual exhaust.
The engine components are "gold" to match the radiator that I had polished.
The original steering wheel has the original Ford 50th anniversary horn button.
This seat was upholstered by a guy that did furniture. This was the first car seat he ever did, so it was a bit rough. He became pretty good at it and did several interiors for people around town. It became a big part of his business.
When I got to college, I fell in love with a red 1979 Turbo Mustang. I just had to have it. When I took this picture, it was of the Mustang. The truck just happened to be behind it. The picture became prophetic in that I spent so much time and money on the Mustang, the truck fell into the background. Strange huh? My truck didn't care, it waited on me.
Sitting behind our garage, my truck was hidden from the world, except when I started it. When it was running, it could be heard from a block away. It also raised a blue smoke cloud that my best friend Mark could see from his house. Also a block away. Mark was my best friend then, and still is today. Ironically, his last name is.....you guessed it. Ford. When he would see the blue smoke signal, he would often come to my house and help me work on the poor truck.
Because I was a poor high school student with no license, and no job, the first improvements where those that were simple, necessary, and cheap. When spring came around, I got a job at the I-75 Shell station, where my truck had been years before. The business had a different owner, and he was the best boss I ever had. No offense to any other boss I've had, he was just that great.
By the time I got my license, I had done the following: Purchased a set of chrome reverse wheels and used tires; replaced the driver-side front fender; replace the grill with a chrome 1956 grill (had to modify the air deflectors for it to fit) replaced the bench seat with buckets from a Ford Torino; installed an 8-track stereo; cut the running boards at the rear support; installed a driver-side window; installed a ply-wood bed floor; replaced the steering wheel with the typical, everyone had to have one, blue metal flake 3 spoke; repaired the tail gate hinges; replaced the tail lights; and painted the entire truck flat black. It was definitely a "Rat Rod"
The most important improvement were under the tutelage of my dad. He helped me rebuild the brake system, repair the steering and exhaust, and rebuild the Flathead V-8.
If you have read the Blog this far, and haven't fallen asleep, I can finally show you pictures of my truck, as it was then:
Shag carpet (it was the 70's you know) and a Ford Pinto mirror, finished it off. It was now road worthy, and when I got my license in October, I could drive it.
Later, I replaced the front bumper, and installed a sunroof. The sunroof was a big mistake. I was backing into the garage one day, and forgot to close it. It hooked on the garage door (who knew these trucks sit so high?) and ripped it right off the top of the truck. Sunroofs were plexi-glass back then, so instead of exploding, it broke into 4 or 5 pieces, and the frame was twisted into an aluminum pretzel.
I drove it to school, I drove it to work, and I worked on it a lot. It was fun, but it was always a rough old truck.
In the fall of my sophomore year in high school, I borrowed some tires on Ford truck wheels, bought some brake fluid, a car battery and some gas, and gathered some tools. My dad and I loaded all that up and headed to the farm to get my truck.
It is a 1953 Ford F-100, with a 239 Flathead V-8 and a "Three on the Tree" three speed transmission. 1953 was the first of the F-100 trucks, and the last of the Flathead V-8 engines in the USA. (I don't know why, but I have loved that Flathead V-8 since the first time I saw it) It was also the Ford Motor Company (FoMoCo) 50th anniversary.
I don't have pictures of it from that day, but here's what it looked like, back to front:
Someone had used a torch to cut a hole in the top of the rear bumper, to bolt a trailer towing ball onto it. The tailgate was hanging from it's latch chains, because both hinges were broken. The rear axle was sitting on wood blocks, because the tires were missing. One of the spring shackles had broken, so the spring was driven through the wood bed. Speaking of the wood bed, most of it was rotted away. Both rear fenders were rusted out where the running boards bolted on. Someone had painted "Farm Truck" down the side of the bed with a brush and house paint. Both running boards were rusted through. There were holes in the back of the cab where there had been a gun rack bolted in. The driver's door window was missing. The rest of the glass was cracked, except the windshield. The seat was rotted and falling apart. The top had been bent down, and popped back up. Someone had cut a hole in the dash for a radio, with a cold chisel. Yes, they cut a hole in the dash with a chisel. The passenger fender support had broken, so the fender had flopped until it had cracks around the wheel well. The front bumper had been welded to the frame, along with some angle iron uprights. I guess they were to push cars with. The truck had hit a tree or post, so the driver side fender was caved in, along with the original grill. It had been painted, with a rattle can, a sort of forest green. The original black was showing through in so many places, I'm not sure if it was a green truck with black spots or a black truck with green spots.
We filled the gas tank and master cylinder, bled the brakes, installed the battery, and (believe it or not) it fired right up. We drove it around the farm a little, until my dad was satisfied the brakes and steering were good. He gave me instructions on how to handle being towed, keeping my truck away from his. He then hooked a tow chain between it's front bumper and his truck's rear bumper, and we headed to town.
Keep in mind, I had driven his truck and work van around the farm, and I had driven a couple of times around our neighborhood block, but I had NEVER driven out on the road. Looking back on it, I'm not sure what he was thinking. I was barely 15, and a year from having a driver's license. Sure, you could drive farm equipment on the road at 14, and the truck did say "Farm Truck" down the side, but I just don't think that applied here.
We did make it home without incident, and I did love "driving" my truck home. (even if the engine wasn't running)
When we got home, he pulled me into the driveway where we unhooked it. I tinkered with it for a while, then started it and drove it to it's parking place BEHIND the garage. As supportive as my dad had been about this, he wasn't going to give up his parking place in the nice, warm, insulated, heated, dry garage with the concrete floor. My truck was going to be outside in the cold, rainy, windy weather, on the ground.
Honestly, I didn't care. I was just glad to have it home.
Because I was born in late August, I've always been 6-8 months younger than most of my class. Because of this, my friends were starting to drive well before I could. This gave me car fever, bad!
Also; I always liked to take things apart, see what made them work, then put them back together. I think I got that from my dad. He almost always did his own mechanic work when he could. In fact, he was partners in a garage many years before I was born.
To feed this need to work on stuff, and feed my car fever (and to keep me from "working" on my dad's stuff) my parents agreed to let me get "some kind of old car" to work on. I already had one in mind.
My grandfather's farm was a gathering place for my mom's family. 4 miles outside of town, many of her brothers and sisters had gardens there. We didn't just garden there, we camped, played in the creek, swam in the ponds, fished, and picnicked there. It was a great place to just wonder around in the woods and fields. There were rocks to play around, ponies to ride, and old barns to explore.
Sitting next to the main barn was my uncle's old truck. It had been sitting for a long time, and I loved playing in and around it. Here is it's history, as far as I know:
It had belonged to the US Forest Service. They had sold it to the guy that owned the Shell Station at I-75. (I worked there several years, but not for the same guy) He traded it to one of my uncles for a 1966 Ford Galaxy race car, with a 427 engine. That uncle drove it a while, then traded it to my uncle Carl for 4 new tires. Uncle Carl used it around the farm for a while, until a rear spring shackle broke, then he parked it next to the barn. That's where I saw it, and fell in love with it. A deal was struck, and it was MINE!
That's right, Nelson, I blame you.
I grew up in the typical small-town USA neighborhood, along with all my good friends, and most of my other friends. Margie Walker, who was in my class at school, had 3 older brothers. The youngest of these, Nelson, was about 4 or 5 years older than us. They lived about half a block down the street from me.
When I was in middle school (they called it Jr. High back then), Nelson came home with a 1949, 5 window Chevrolet truck. It was in pretty rough shape, but it was complete, and it would run. He spent the next 6-8 months fixing, sanding, straitening, and painting everything on it. He replaced the chrome bumpers and grille, added a stereo, changed the steering wheel, and re-upholstered the interior. He painted it blue, and it looked something like this:
That's not his truck, but it shows you what one looks like. I wish I had pictures of it, but I don't. You never think to take a picture until it's too late.
Watching him work on that truck is what got me hooked on old trucks so many years ago. That seed slept in the back of my brain for a couple of years.
Everyone that really knows me knows I have owned a 1953 Ford F100 pickup since I was 15 years old. Let's just say, it's been a while. Originally "sold" to me, by my uncle Carl, for $30, I never actually paid for it. Instead, I mowed his farm pastures with a 1952 Ford 8N tractor. I think he got the better part of the deal.
Over the years, the truck has been in various states of assembly. I drove it to high school and work a few times, but not very often. Usually it has been together, but not really road worthy. Some times it has been completely disassembled, and even spread across two counties.
I don't usually make new year's resolutions. To me, the year is just a number on the calendar, and a new year is nothing really special. This year, I have decided to paint my truck, license it, and drive it on the street.
I'm going to chronicle the progress here, just in case anyone is interested. If they're not, that's cool too.
Thanks for reading.
