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Wily Kyote · 07-30-2011, 10:35 PM

I enjoyed the answers. Some were poignant, most all were heartwarming.

When I was seven, brother and I were scheduled for our tonsil removals during Christmas vacation from school. On the fateful morning, the gas line was frozen on the ’39 Ford sedan (it may have been ‘drip’ gas because this was during WWII). Brother and I were hoping the thing never started, but Daddy heated the fuel line with a plumber’s torch and got it running.

So off we went, two hours late and forty miles of two-lane between us and destiny. Brother and I wanted to be disgruntled, but we couldn’t be: we sat on the front edge of the rear seat, elbows hooked over the front seatback, eyes as big as saucers riveted on the speedometer. Daddy was tearing along like Junior Johnson on a white lightnin’ run. Every time the road straightened enough, the needle would hit eighty-five or more. When the road wasn’t straight, we occupants were being flung side-to-side like on a carnival ride. And wondering what awaited past the tree-shrouded curve.

Brother and I looked at each other, wordless, but we later said we were thinking the same thing: Had the gas line really been frozen, or had Daddy faked it so he could do this? I mean, he was having too much fun!

And so were we. Though the denizens of the docile farm vehicles we were zipping past seemed to not be sharing the mirth.

We got to the hospital and into our bed hours before surgery, so, were we right about the charade?

Fast forward three years, and we were stranded at roadside in darkness in a ’46 brand “C” because the oil-scooper-lubricated six cylinder had given up the ghost with babbit rod failure... And it had never been driven past sixty. Color me Ford blue ever since.

07-30-2011, 10:35 PM	#88
Wily Kyote Member Join Date: Jul 2011 Posts: 60	Re: What made you a "Ford" guy? I enjoyed the answers. Some were poignant, most all were heartwarming. When I was seven, brother and I were scheduled for our tonsil removals during Christmas vacation from school. On the fateful morning, the gas line was frozen on the ’39 Ford sedan (it may have been ‘drip’ gas because this was during WWII). Brother and I were hoping the thing never started, but Daddy heated the fuel line with a plumber’s torch and got it running. So off we went, two hours late and forty miles of two-lane between us and destiny. Brother and I wanted to be disgruntled, but we couldn’t be: we sat on the front edge of the rear seat, elbows hooked over the front seatback, eyes as big as saucers riveted on the speedometer. Daddy was tearing along like Junior Johnson on a white lightnin’ run. Every time the road straightened enough, the needle would hit eighty-five or more. When the road wasn’t straight, we occupants were being flung side-to-side like on a carnival ride. And wondering what awaited past the tree-shrouded curve. Brother and I looked at each other, wordless, but we later said we were thinking the same thing: Had the gas line really been frozen, or had Daddy faked it so he could do this? I mean, he was having too much fun! And so were we. Though the denizens of the docile farm vehicles we were zipping past seemed to not be sharing the mirth. We got to the hospital and into our bed hours before surgery, so, were we right about the charade? Fast forward three years, and we were stranded at roadside in darkness in a ’46 brand “C” because the oil-scooper-lubricated six cylinder had given up the ghost with babbit rod failure... And it had never been driven past sixty. Color me Ford blue ever since.