We were on one of those rising, dipping rollercoaster roads in the Ozarks last week when this gleaming, flawless machine from another time appeared in front of us.
It was a 1960s era Chevy truck that had been meticulously rebuilt from the ground up. Sunshine bouncing from glass, chrome and fresh paint created a daytime light show in the mountains.
Hills and curves in the highway gave us panoramic views of the spectacular vehicle for a good while until we were finally able to get around it.
The driver had the window down with his arm out enjoying the cool weather. There was a tattoo on his forearm and a cigarette in his hand.
I pointed at his truck as we passed it and gave him the thumps up sign. He smiled, nodded, and returned the gesture. Then one of the most far-fetched things I have ever said escaped from my lips.
“You will never know how much I would like to get a broken-down old car or truck and fix it up to look like that,” I told Regina.
She seemed shocked for a minute and finally asked, “Don’t you remember that I have to put the windshield wiper fluid in your car because you never know where to pour it?”
Her response was a little harsh, I thought, but true. So I will not have an entry in the Natchitoches car show this weekend but will be there to admire the hundreds of vehicles as I am every year.
These folks from hither and yon who will be showing off prized vehicles on the downtown riverbank are sort of a mixture of artists, mechanics, historians, preservationists, and pure geniuses.
Most of them took old junk heaps and molded them with torches, welding machines, hammers, hacksaws, grinders, sanders, chisels, drills, wrenches, and paint sprayers into classics.
Or bought them from somebody else that did the rebuilding but still have the skills to keep the engines and transmissions purring and the rest of the vehicles sleek and pretty.
They share their masterpieces at car shows with me and other old folks who get caught up in the nostalgia of such events and young people like my granddaughters who always love the exhibit even though they never heard of a Studebaker or Plymouth.
I will be on the lookout for a 1946 Ford, because that’s the first car I ever owned. It was almost a classic when I got it during high school in 1956 for $250.
All the upholstery was gone, even from the sun visors that were bare wood. It smoked a lot. I carried a case of cheap Rose Oil in the truck and added a quart every day or two.
Regina is right that I would not know how to start rebuilding a vehicle. But it’s something I have always wanted to do even though I could never get my bicycle chain back on when it came off.
Mr. Pope down the road was a millwright at International Paper. He worked on paper machines that were a hundred yards long and had a million moving parts.
He would light a Chesterfield, put the chain back on, tighten it and oil it before he finished the cigarette.
I still ride a bike nearly every day, and I am having some brake problems. This is not like a plain bicycle that stops when you push the pedal backways. The brakes work with cables and hand grips.
The brakes barely catch before the grip reaches the handlebar. I am wearing out my shoes helping the bike stop.
When these mechanical wizards are in town for the car show, I intend to ask them how to fix my bike brakes and which hole to pour wiper fluid in.
Then I will dream some more about rebuilding an old car or truck.
REPRINTED FROM THE NATCHITOCHES TIMES