DOORS TO THE PAST
Model A 1928
Car doors fascinate me. I like their lines, the angles and frequently, the implied invitation.
1948 (?) Ford Truck
While they make a fine subject for my camera, I am not oblivious to the fanatical attention decent doors require. Their wear and tear make them the focal point of a lot of effort. My interest extends well past perfect doors.
Burned 32 buick
The story goes that Tom Carr, auto restoration pro, was offered the chance to purchase an original condition 1932 Buick that had been stored in a garage for decades. It wasn’t in prime condition, but it was very restorable; until the fire. A week after the offer was made, the garage caught fire and decimated the car. Tom wound up taking it off the desolate owner’s hands and the car sits in Carr’s restoration lot awaiting an interested party. You can see the burned out shell here.
And sometimes, the doors strike me as a work of art.
1948 (?) Ford Truck
Other times, I am fascinated by the implied history as with these mystery doors from a shell of a car I visit from time to time in Klamath Falls, Oregon.
Mystery car
While I have many more examples of fascinating car doors, I’d love to see your favorites as well. Contact me arrange for download.
I WANT THIS CAR
OR ONE LIKE IT–OR AT LEAST A RIDE.
The trouble with gawking at other people’s old cars is it provokes a profound desire to have one. Visits to show and shines, roving the hills to find relics to photograph and attending various old car events feed my appetite for automotive beauty. And now I want an old car for my own.
This is a silly desire because I have neither the skill nor the talent to maintain one. I don’t even know anyone who’d be a willing volunteer. In fact, I don’t know anyone who shares my passion for old cars other than the new momentary friends I meet at car events.
And old cars tend to be awfully expensive. (You know this.) Such rational thinking changes nothing. I still want this car. And I know I could never achieve the level of finish or even maintain it as well as the owner of this beauty has.
42 Ford
When I saw this Black Ford cruise within five feet of me, I was tempted to jump in the passenger seat and say, “Let’s Go.” I didn’t have the nerve this time, but next time I see a ‘42 Ford Convertible that close, I will do something to get a ride…
ROSEBURG GRAFFITI EVENT–HOTRODS AND MORE
Roseburg Graffiti - 2008
The Old car Gods were shining on Southern Oregon this month; two car events, one in Roseburg and one in Grants Pass made for some interesting pictures, new friends and great gawking. (visit Old Cars Never Die for a slide show.)
Cruisin'
I found out about the event at 4:30 on Friday. By five, I was on the road, camera packed with toothbrush and pillow stashed in the trunk. Three hours later, I found a room at the Travel Lodge right on one of the main drags. The accommodations were comfortable and the place was jammed with car enthusiasts. We watched the unintentional parade from the Motel driveway, some people having the foresight to bring canvas chairs.
Graffiti Day Cruise
Muscle cars made noise and the hot rods quivered with envy. I saw few restorations, but many people were in for the night. I discovered most of the restorations were trailered to Roseburg while the hotrods and muscle cars drove no matter how distant their home base. One of the few remaining drive-ins was reputed to have a throng of ’50s cars.
The Show and Shine was the highlight for me. To get to know the owners, to take a few pictures using the tripod (monopod), to admire and get up close and personal is my idea of time well spent. But, it was a very hot day in Roseburg. Fortunately, I found shade and a perch with Ray Johnson.
Ray’s ‘51 Chevy is a White masterpiece. He did all the metal work himself. I asked him if he was a metalsmith, he replied, “I am now.” Notice the dropped cab on this truck. He lowered the door.
So many great examples of backyard workmanship, sometimes unidentified. These Chevy trucks may also be a 50-51 but are customized so I am unsure…the bed is lowered on one. No mistaking that grill, however.
THE CREW’S CARS FROM ‘50 CHEVY TO SHRIKE 3 WHEELER
The “Crew” started as the “Three M’s” in Junior High School, 1950’s Garden Grove California; a time and place now only written about by baby-boomers or seen in very bad nostalgia movies. Massaro, Metzker and Mladnich who committed to straight A’s and friendship spent most of their free time together. In high school, Rancho Alamitos, the group expanded to 7 members and was renamed by the Chem teacher as, “The Crew.”
Rancho 1960
The boys sat together on the lawn at lunch, occasionally honoring new girl friends with an invitation to join them under the shade tree they appropriated as their own, but mostly the Crew just riffed off each other’s puns and inside jokes. Their laughter blanketed the side lawn of Rancho and their mischief became the stuff of legends.
One spring day those arriving to school early were perplexed by all the “For Sale” signs scattered on the various front lawns. And through the morning the Admin staff fielded strange phone inquiries about the mansion with 105 rooms, fifteen bathrooms, basketball courts and 20 tennis courts. Seems the crew had placed a Real Estate advertisement (billed to the school) in the local paper and put the school up for sale.
Mischief aside, the Crew studied together, competed for grades and sometimes, fished together. Once I was invited to join Massaro and Metzker on an early morning fishing expedition. Turns out I was the only one who caught anything but Massaro was chivalrous and cleaned it, fried it up in a hot buttered pan he brought for the occasion and we all shared it. Strangely, at a recent reunion, neither Massaro nor Metzker remembered the outing. Massaro’s first car was our ride: A 1950 Chevy Convertible, yellow and very clean.
I jumped at the chance and was rewarded by the understanding that each of the Crew members had become older versions of themselves. One of the competitive topics was who had the highest mileage car. Midrange was 250,000 miles and the winner, whom I believe was Davie Norton (Nort), was over 350,000.
But Nort was a real car fanatic. He used his curiosity, creativity and perversity to create a three wheeled energy efficient vehicle; the Shrike.
Shrike 3 Wheeler
David Norton
Lateral G: 1.0 at low speeds (40 mph), Braking G: 1.0, 0-60: 6.4 sec, 1/4 mile: 14.6 sec @ 97.6 mph, Top Speed: I have no idea (something over 120 mph. It’s still accelerating at over .2 G at 80 mph). Fuel consumption: 30 (kick-gas) to 40 (very relaxing) mpg.
These days, Massaro Drives a Hybrid and today, as I await a visit from his soon-to-be-advocacy lawyer daughter, I keep an outlook for her in her Blue Honda Hybrid which she truly loves.
Check back here periodically for more about the Crew and their Automotive history…a reflection of America’s own fascination with cars, I am sure.
1932 Buick — Awaiting Restoration
Sadly, I cannot tell you these are before and after shots. The 1932 Buick series 90 above is in the back lot of a Southern Oregon home-based car restoration shop. Tom Carr has a team of restoration professionals who work from the home’s two garages. The side yard is storage for a variety of hulks, all waiting for someone to invest in their restoration.
The Buick in question is a rare classic and ready for restoration. Chuck Bidwell’s custom-bodied 1932 90 Series Town Car dates from an era when elaborate coach-built Dusenbergs and Packards were the rides of choice for the discerning upscale automobile buyer. Commissioned by Charles S. Howard (who owned the celebrated racehorse, Sea Biscuit), the car was constructed on stretched Buick chassis by the Murphy Company, one of the foremost coachbuilders of the era.
AN OLD NASH NEEDS A NEW HOME
My newest passion is to locate old dead cars. Fortunately, I am not alone. So many are in salvage lots where they will soon be crushed for scrap; scrap metal and copper from the radiators being more valuable than parts. Maybe Jim in Eugene Oregon would consider selling his Nash to someone who can afford to love it.
Last week I fell in real love with a rusted carcass of a true beauty. With the help of John MacDonald, the car is identified as a 1935 Nash. It saddens me beyond knowing that this once extraordinary creation will rust away and be lost forever.
Fortunately, a few restorations exist, though more and more old cars are being made into Street Rods and Rat-Rods instead because, again, they are more valuable than true restorations.
See for yourself how lovely this unique automotive work of art can be.
1937 Olds – A Great Sofa
The ’37 Olds My 1937 Oldsmobile was as big as it was black. Most were. When my then-husband and I took the car to Lake Merritt Park to wax it in the shade of a tree, all passers-by assumed it was a Cadillac. Eventually, we just nodded and said, “Yes, it is.
The interior was nicer than most living rooms I have visited. The upholstery was plush and the bench seat in the back more like a small bed. All the control dials were large and easy to read and the floor shift was smooth and dependable.
1937 Oldsmobile Series F-37 four door trunk sedan has a 230 cid 6-cylinder engine producing 95 horsepower. A three-speed sliding gear floor shift transmission guided the Olds to quiet Sunday afternoon driving speeds. Weighing in at 3395 pounds this car had a 117″ wheebase and cost $945 at the factory in Lansing back in 1937.
During the time we owned this beauty, we also owned two British Leyland cars. They were always in the shop; perhaps you have heard of their electrical nickname? British Leyland, the Prince of Darkness. Meanwhile, the olds was always ready to go.
The one repair we had in all the three years of ownership was a pinion gear (my old friend). We couldn’t locate one so one was fabricated and installed; total bill, $90.
I loved my car and the attention it brought. Friends we chauffeured to dinner and such were in awe of the back seat comfort. And I just loved to drive it.
Sadly, my then husband (clue about why he became a former husband) insisted if I wanted to purchase a new sofa for our new (very old) home, I’d have to sell my Olds.
The sofa cost $900 but was not nearly so much fun as the car. But that is another story.
MY FIRST CAR COST $250
Too bad no one told me the difference between car polish and car wax. I polished my first car every week end until I noticed the primer was starting to show through.
I bought the car with my own money but was not allowed to drive it until I could replace the tires. Once that was done, I had the kind of freedom every teen-ager requires. Drive-in movies, cruising the beach and guaranteed transportation to school. Gas and burgers were 19 Cents! I was outraged when gas soared to $.21.
The car was easy to drive and I learned to double clutch, downshift. I also learned how to pay for a new pinion gear.
On the return leg from Long Beach State one afternoon I spotted a former high school classmate pushing his new red motor bike up H99. I pulled over and discovered he was out of gas. We put the motor bike in the back seat of the Plymouth and I drove him home. Now that’s a roomy back seat.
The car was dependable and easy to drive. I was really disappointed when the car was stolen. I hoped I would get it back in driving condition so I borrowed my older sister’s 1955 Ford. But that’s another story.
Dan’s 1962 XKE Jaguar and Me
Dan’s XKE was purchased outright with cash from his trust fund. He was 20 years old, Gay and my closest friend. He valued my rough sense of humor because I was the only person he knew who wasn’t afraid to acknowledge he’d come out and love him anyway.
Dan was a homosexual before it was “cool.” He was not an attractive man and was saddled with the additional handicap of true genius. In high school, the jocks often lifted him into a trash can (making him late for class) or taunted about his constant attire of brown cords and a long sleeved button down shirt. Dan took it in stride and dismissed the abuse as expected.
He read and enjoyed Grey’s Anatomy, all of Shakespeare, Camus, Freud and Joyce. Our crew spent free time listening to classical music, going to concerts in LA or long hours abusing the privilege of listing to records at a huge, now defunct, LA record store. We discussed philosophies we thought we were the first to discover and commended ourselves on our ability to see the folly of man’s plight. Hey, we were teenagers.
After high school, Dan was admitted to UCLA in the gifted program. Away from the constraints of small town Garden Grove, Dan found myriad ways to ditch class with his way too bright class mates. They often ventured to San Francisco, which you may recall was the place to be in the ‘60s, clearing a path to outstanding restaurants, music locales and places of interest. He’d return with wonderful stories and the promise to take me there.
And then he bought the E-Jag. By then, Dan had dropped out of UCLA and lived high atop LA in a new view home on Kings Drive (though he would derisively comment he should have bought one block over on Queens Drive). I stayed the night as we prepared for the long drive and I was ecstatic. San Francisco was the Promised Land. And a car trip with Dan meant great music and lots of capital letter conversations.
We were great Gran Prix enthusiasts and had been deafened and dirtied at several race tracks, but this stream-lined Jag was the culmination of all our race car dreams. It was fast, truly beautiful and had plenty of room for our very few posessions. We were overly comfortable in the body forming leather seats and didn’t mind the 10 mpg gas guzzling. We were in a Jag.
With the knowledge that young single people traveling alone and enjoying the hospitality of a fine hotel would be more readily accepted if they were married, Dan and I first stopped at the local Woolworths to purchase ersatz wedding bands. This single act set the tone for our adventure.
We set out early and chattered non-stop for the first two hours. Somewhere just outside of Santa Barbara, Dan realized there was a problem with the brakes. Since there was a dual master cylinder system it wasn’t an emergency so we kept on to San Francisco.
Dan and I laughed at the stares and funny looks we got in the Jag. We were certain a lot of the attention was a bit of envy because two kids were on board.
We checked into the Mark Hopkins and were whisked off to our room by an obsequious hotel man who volunteered a behind the scenes hotel tour later, which we accepted. We returned from the extensive tour to a room festooned with a huge fruit basket and fresh flowers congratulating the newlyweds! We had not told anyone nor even intimated the status of our relationship but enjoyed the conclusion-jumper’s gifts nevertheless.
Before dinner we cruised around town, car top and my eyes wide open. I felt I was seeing for the first time. The architecture, the pure blue sky and the vistas from the various hills thrilled me in ways I can remember even today. I vowed instantly to move to San Francisco as soon as the semester was over to continue my education (which I did). We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge twice. If you have never done that in a topless car, it should be a life’s ambition.
Our restaurant was the then, very posh and esoteric, Taj of India. Dan had frequented the eatery three or four times on previous visits and had regaled me with tales of unique food and wonderful smells. He had not oversold the place. The interior was ethnically appropriate and not over the top. We feasted, laughed and made fun of one or two of our friends who did not appreciate either spicy food or culinary spontaneity.
Imagine our surprise when the waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne; a gesture from another guest. We accepted, nodded our thanks and proceeded to undo the puzzle of the gift. As they were leaving, our patrons stopped by to say, “We seldom see young people so in love. It is such a pleasure to watch you two.” We thanked them and had a great laugh after they left.
The remainder of our four day adventure was marred only once. We visited the female impersonator review Finnochios for the last show of the evening. As we were leaving, a man walked up to Dan, shook his hand and whispered to him, “What are you doing with that Fish (yesterday’s term for “fag-hag”) when you could be with me?” Dan was appalled and quickly went into a depression. He had been enjoying the momentary illusion of being a normal man with a mainstream life and my perfect collusion.
On the way back to the hotel, the Jag’s second master cylinder gave way and the brakes no longer worked. I took a plane home and Dan returned a week later. The dealership took three days to repair the car because they were out of master cylinders due to so many previous repairs: My first introduction to English automotive craftsmanship.
Dan was to have inherited over $60 million (in 1960’s dollars) worth of LA real estate on his twenty second birthday, but, sadly, he committed suicide in a tawdry Mexican Motel under the name Robert Casadesu, our favorite pianist. The car disappeared with the rest of his estate. But that is another story.
John’s Ford Rod
As I loped along highway 99 in search of old cars with which to entertain my camera, I glimpsed a red flash from the corner of my eye. Dashing down an access road was a red Ford Hot Rod. This was truly a gift from the old-car-gods. I pulled off the highway and went in search of the car.
I lost site of it because the off ramp made me circle around in the wrong direction. But I am intrepid when it comes to my camera and an old car. I tried to anticipate where the car would be and trudged away. After about twenty minutes trolling the town, it was with true glee I spotted the car in my rear view mirror. I made a hasty detour to the side of the road directly in view of a police car. Unmindful of the possibilities, I let the rod pass me then pulled out directly in back.
I followed the car for about ten minutes, heart pounding with the prospect of landing my automotive prey. Up the mountain roads he led me until he motioned for me to pull over at a view spot. The driver had divined my intentions and accommodated my very wish.
John ’s 1932 Five window Coupe is on a very slight rake, not so much that he couldn’t go over bumps and just enough to accentuate the lines. It turns out John was not surprised at the attention. In fact, he was on a Sunday drive specifically because he enjoys showing off his street rod. He has owned the car since 1941 and originally raced the Ford and frequently won. He stopped racing when “all that silly safety stuff with cages and roll bars made it ugly.”
I asked John how many miles he had on the car and he couldn’t say because he only installed a speedometer/odometer 300 miles ago. Since he raced the car for so many years, he never needed one. John said, “I always seemed to know how fast I was going and today, well, I just don’t drive very fast.” A brand new speedometer (in Ford years) was in the trunk so he finally installed it when he registered the car last year. He figured he needed it for insurance purposes.
John keeps his car garaged at his home in Medford and joins his buddies on week end car trips much to the delight of gawkers like me.
