HAUNTED BY 1949 HUDSON COMMODORE

I suppose the romance of a rusting automotive relic is partly about what it could have been.  I dream that some of the pictures on my blog will capture the imagination of a well monied automobile junkie who will surrender some coin to salvage and rejuvenate these beauties. This 1949 Hudson Commodore haunts me because its story is unknown.  It seems just to be waiting.

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. 

AN OLD NASH NEEDS A NEW HOME

 

My 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.

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. 

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.  

                            

 

 

Leroy’s 1956 Fordamatic V8 Truck

I took the back roads to Medford on the return leg of my car trip to Eugene and pulled into the town of Drain, population 1800, on the off chance of spotting old dead cars on farms and backyards. 

Rolled VW

I probably wasn’t the only teenager to roll a Bug, but I was probably the only one who thought of herself as Sterling Moss’s little sister.  I took the corner high and called my clipping point just right.  I gave it full throttle at the apex and woosh, she started to roll.  There was water in a depression on the street.  I acted fast to right the car and bam, I hit the curb; over she went.

My First Car

A friend, who has two children, a boy and a girl, is an excellent observer and a very pragmatic philosopher. She tells me girls are born with the doll gene and boys are born with the truck gene. She, as with most mothers, tells of the many differences between girls and boys from their first cries.