On any Sunday, it sat outside a clapboard church, its engine clicking as it cooled while the preacher warmed to his message. It took newlyweds to Panama City. It ran off roads, rear-ended other cars and took grandma to the S&H Green Stamps store.
Granddaddy used it for fishing. Daddy used it to get his license. Big brother used it for dates that led to dead-end dirt roads.
Highway troopers pulled it over and let the driver go with a warning to drive straight home, son, and I damn-sure better not see you doing this again. It ran, stopped, ran again, stopped again. It was praised, cussed, discarded.
It is a 1950 Ford. Felton, Ga., 64 miles west of Atlanta.