Along a curve on a bendy Georgia highway, where the land lies like a crumpled blanket, rests a ’63 Ford Galaxie 500. Beside that is a ’53 Chevrolet Biscayne. Toccoa, 85 miles north of Atlanta.
Rust respects no seasons, no makes. A ’63 Dodge 100 longbed. White, 50 miles north of Atlanta
One of the delights of driving country roads is rounding a curve and discovering something like this. Sylvia saw it first. “Look!” she said. I didn’t hesitate. The Toyota rolled to a quick stop. “Dodge,” I said. Boy, was I wrong. This is a Federal, one of a line of medium- and heavy-weight haulers that debutedContinue reading “No. 95: Big 6”
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 hisContinue reading “No. 96: ’50 Ford”