What is this? Hard to say. Time and use have removed any identifying badges that would indicate if this car rolled off an assembly line at Dearborn, Detroit, Auburn, Toledo or some other city that prided itself on auto production.
It was built in the early 1930s; the slightly swept windshield post was a design element from that era. It also has suicide doors, which indicates this sedan was not a base model.
This car could just as easily be a Ford, Chevy or Dodge. Or maybe it’s a marque from automotive history – a Graham-Paige, perhaps, or an Essex or Packard. What’s more certain is that someone, about 80 years ago, shook a salesman’s hand. He (and it almost surely was a man) took the keys of his new car and drove away.
Now, it’s come to a stop in the dust, and the dirt, not far from the eastern face of the Sierras. Middlegate, Nev., once a stop on the Pony Express, 2,280 miles west of Atlanta.
(Photo by Senior Junkyard Correspondent Harold “Tex” Colson)
It Was Running When I Parked It 