Once you start looking, you see them everywhere — in barns, cornfields, alongside mountain roads, in driveways angling off city streets. There’s the faded pickup that delivered prescriptions from a long-closed family pharmacy; the derelict sedan that once hauled scabby-kneed boys to Sunday school; the tattered ragtop that in its prim turned as many heads as its driver, inscrutable in her sunglasses and silk headscarf. They’re living hunks of history, found art in its purest form. Inside them live a million long-lost stories.
Oldcarguy had a familiar gleam in his eye that day last summer when he returned from Scout camp with the Baby Boy. His crush was petite, curvy, shiny, sporty — a jet-black 1999 Mazda Miata. One of the other Scout dads was selling it. He had a family of young boys who still wanted to go everyplace with their father. We, on the other hand, had a couple of teens with their own drivers’ licenses. We also had a backyard full of vehicles: two antique pickups, a ’60s convertible, a disassembled Jeep or two, and two everyday-driver sedans.
But we actually NEED this car, opined oldcarguy. He did have a point. My 2008 Honda Fit had been pledged to No. 1 Son, though it was technically still mine until said son met certain academic goals. Still, our oldest boy often drove it to school and his job. While I work from home most days, I do occasionally have to make an appearance in the office, pick up groceries, attend yoga class, go to the dentist …
Let me say right here that I am not really a car person. Until I married oldcarguy (at age 39), I’d only owned three cars. In my LIFE. All were dependable, practical, even boring — none of which describe the Miata. But I believe one of the secrets of keeping a marriage lively is for each spouse to maintain individual friends, interests and pursuits. Another is not to sweat the small stuff. So the Miata was mine. Well, sort of.
I joke to my friends that it’s a “ridiculous car” for me to drive, and call it the MidlifeCrisisMobile. It’s loud, showy, uncomfortable, and barely accommodates a load of groceries. I struggle to close the balky top. But I have to admit it’s kinda cute.
The other day, I drove it to the high school to pick up Baby Boy for a doctor’s appointment. He folded his 6’2″ frame into the passenger seat and said, “Mom, let’s take the top down.” The sun was beating down, I’d forgotten my sunglasses, and up to that point had been enjoying a rare good hair day. But I thought, what the heck. Chances to bond with my sons are precious few these days. I unlatched the top.
For the next 20 minutes or so, we saw what the Miata was made for. She took the curves beautifully. I showed my son that his fuddy-duddy mom was pretty handy with a stick shift. He grinned. My hair was a mess, my eyes watering from the wind. I stuck a CD into the fabulously retro player and turned it up. It was Prince — most appropriate for a car built in 1999.
I thought about where I was in that year: living in a Philadelphia rowhouse a few blocks from the Rocky Steps, working nights at the Inquirer, a hopeful newlywed at 40. Could I have imagined, then, driving this car, having this boy, living this life? From the CD player, Prince sang: “I don’t care where we go, I don’t care what we do. I don’t care, pretty baby, just take me with you.”
Yes, I thought, this is exactly what I imagined.
Sometime after we returned home, the Baby Boy struck up a conversation with his dad. “I think,” he said, “Mom really likes the Miata.”
The evidence is right there – there, where the soil is slowly swallowing a flat tire. This machine hasn’t moved in a long time.
But when it did, this Massey Ferguson 175 was a workhorse – short on glamor, long on guts. MF rolled out the 175 in 1964; for 11 years, it was the manufacturer’s standard for light- to medium-use tractors. It also was the result of years of mergers – of an Ontario, Canada, company founded in 1847, that successively merged with other manufacturers. And, with each merger, came a newer, more powerful tractor.
(Memama bought a used MF, a TE-20, from a dealer in Fuquay-Varina, N.C. It was gray with a steel seat and steering wheel the diameter of a manhole. It pulled stumps and plows and cars. It carried two little boys, one on each fender, their mama keeping a worried watch.)
But even the most-reliable tractor eventually slows, then stops. This one came to a rest outside a convenience store that begs customers not to wear Halloween masks when entering the premises.
I own a 1948 Jeep – well, technically, I own two. One should, sometime in the future, be back on the road; the other is the carcass that will render parts to make the first CJ2A Jeep roadworthy.
A nation separated them. One was a Florida bog-runner, shoved in a barn and forgotten for years. The other worked for years as a parade entry for a VFW hall in Wisconsin. I retrieved the Florida Jeep on a UHaul flatbed – a great road trip for myself and older son. A taciturn guy with a big mustache delivered the other from Wisconsin to my door. “Long drive,” he said.
I credit my younger son for the Jeep – er, Jeeps. We were returning from a baseball game a couple of years ago when he spied a restored CJ2A outside a hardware store. “Wouldn’t it be cool to get one to restore?” he asked. I nearly ran off the road.
When I was his age, about 14 or so, I craved an old Jeep. Ever since my friend up the road had showed me his daddy’s old flat-fendered machine, I had wanted one. It was more go-cart than car – a tiny thing with a short wheelbase, a C-cab perched like a half-built outhouse over two bucket seats. It rattled. It rumbled. It caught my heart. I begged dad to buy one we could take apart in the barn. The old man was too cheap. I realized that getting a Jeep, like signing a Major League contract, wasn’t in the works.
And then, long decades later, my baby boy repeated what his dad had said all those years ago.
The chassis to the driver Jeep is now in my garage. The body — it’s called a “tub” — is sitting on two sawhorses in the back yard beyond the garage where my wife cannot see it. The engine was yanked, put back. It has new shocks. We have to rebuild the brakes. I want to switch the electrical system from 6 volts to 12. I am daunted by all that needs to be done. Some days, I want to advertise the old metal and cut my losses: Two Jeeps, cheap.
Then I think of my boy, and the boy my father refused.
Someone got it this far. Then, nature did what it always does: Its green tendrils reached out. With leaf and limb, it drew the machine close.
Peeking from all this foliage is a first-edition Dodge D100 pickup. The D100 marked a styling departure from the mid-‘50s Job Rated machines – wider, not as tall, a better ride. It came in two styles: the fleetside beds, called Sweptline, and the stepside, aka Utiline. Under the hood was a 318, the smallest V8 in the Chrysler line, or the 225 hemi, a nearly indestructible 6-cylinder power plant.
The D100 was a Dodge mainstay from 1961 through 1993. This machine appears to be a ’64, though it’s hard to say. It has the remains of the hemi under its rusted hood.
These trucks did it all — hauled groceries, firewood, feed, dirt, construction materials, furniture, you name it. At least one took hormonally driven boys to Myrtle Beach. It carried a guy and his date to the prom.
The river runs west, then north for a ways, past Stockton. It flows across land flat as a pool table, with mountains in the distance. On clear days, those peaks appear a lot closer than they are. Natives know this.
What else they know: The land is filled with old heaps. Did the Okies discard them? Probably, yes, some. Others arrived later. Cars and trucks with bashed-in headlights turn blind eyes to the highways that took them to where they now rest and rust. The wind whistles through their shattered glass. Lizards doze in their shadows.
Old River, Calif., 2,420 miles west of Atlanta.
(Photos by Senior Junkyard Correspondent Harold “Tex” Colson)
It’s well known that America was hardly ready for a global conflict when one crash-landed on its lap on Dec. 7, 1941. Our nation had to gear up, and fast, for a war that would spread across oceans and continents. That included building trucks.
Dodge responded with the WC, a series of half- and three-quarter-ton trucks that saw service in every theater of World War II. Through August 1945, Dodge built more than 250,000 of the olive-drab haulers.
Then, that war ended, Dodge retooled again and created an even better machine. In 1951, it rolled out the M37. It was based closely on its World War II predecessor. Powered by an inline 6 engine that produced less than 80 horsepower, the trucks were our military’s wheels of choice.
Dodge produced the M37 through 1968. Not long after, the government began auctioning the retired vehicles – WCs and M37s — to fire departments, lumber companies and other businesses that needed mechanized oomph. Some are still running. But not these two. What conflicts did they see?
Mattawan, Mich., 750 miles north of Atlanta. (Photos by Roving Junkyard Correspondent Marva Brackett Godin)
It was running when I parked it, No. 144: The Loadmaster.
This old hoss carried melons from the farms of south Georgia to the freight yards of Atlanta. It trundled bundles of bright leaf to warehouses in Greenville and Rocky Mount. It carried pumpkins from central Michigan to trucking terminals in Kalamazoo. It took hardhatted men into the heart of the Iron Range.
The Chevrolet Loadmaster was ubiquitous. The heavy-duty big brother of the Thriftmaster, the machine debuted in 1947. Chevy produced this 1.5-ton truck with only limited changes until early 1955.
Based on a few design clues, this Loadmaster was built between 1947-1950. There’s no telling how many years it ran, or what it carried, or where it went. It’s safe to say that it worked, and worked hard, until it came to a rest in a thicket of hardwoods 30 miles east of Lake Michigan.
Mattawan, Mich., 750 miles north of Atlanta.
(Photos by Roving Junkyard Correspondent Marva Brackett Godin)
The Chevrolet Fleetline bowed in 1941 … just in time for Chevy executives to shelve the automaker’s family-car-for-all and turn their attention to making tanks. Plans for a roomy, inline-6-powered car with three speeds on the column languished until the end of World War II. By 1947, Chevrolet was going full-tilt making an array of different model cars and trucks.
In 1948, it built this Fleetline. The machine had fenders that began in one ZIP code and ended in another. Note those fancy chrome strips!
Rock Hall, Md., 730 miles northeast of Atlanta.
(Photos by Senior Junkyard Correspondent Harold “Tex” Colson)
The little car bowed in American in 1958. It was a boxy thing, underpowered and underwhelming, a reminder that most European cars could not compete on our superhighways. In time, we came to know the line for three distinct models: the Kadett, the Manta and the GT – the third a dead ringer for a baby Corvette.
But the German auto maker produced other cars for other markets, including a line for Europeans who wanted to know what it felt like to drive something big and powerful. In 1964, Opel unveiled the Diplomat, an homage to the chrome behemoths of North America. The Diplomat looked like something from Detroit, with its wide stance and generous chrome. It even offered the 327 V8 – yes, that 327. It was a deal with GM, its parent company.
The last Diplomat rolled off the assembly line in 1977. This model, which appears to be from the early 1970s, is abandoned in a parking lot at an export nursery where our correspondent worked in the spring of 1984.
Boskoop, the Netherlands, 4,400 miles northeast of Atlanta.
(Photos by Junkyard Correspondent Marva Brackett Godin)