Not my actual car, but close. I'll find a photo of mine sometime and put it up here.
Everyone dreams of finding an unmolested, unrestored, unloved, and unwanted classic car in some abandoned barn. Here’s my version of that story from a time long ago and what seems like a galaxy far far away….
Most young people acquire their first car via normal channels, such as a private party or Honest John’s Fine Used Cars. Or perhaps a hand-me-down from a parent or other relative. Mine was dragged out of a chicken barn.
My late father was a real-estate broker in Southern California, as was I for some years. Dad had been called in to sell a mini-ranch in a rural area of Ontario for a widow who was moving to the proverbial condo in Palm Springs. While surveying the property’s outbuildings, he noticed a large mass, somewhat resembling the shape of an automobile. It lay beneath a mountain of hay, wire fencing, lumber, at least one mattress, and multiple layers of chicken droppings. It turns out the big pile was indeed a car, parked there by the property owner’s late husband and last driven some 20 years before.
Dad’s thoughts of measuring the house for the listing contract were brushed aside. He called me, and said to come quick and help him uncover this newfound treasure: a 1954 Mercury Monterey hardtop. Sand beige, emerald-green top, two-tone interior, lots of chrome. I was 16 at the time (awarded my driver’s license at 8:30 a.m. on the day of my 16th birthday) and wanted a car–any car–more than bees want flowers. In fact, I didn’t just want a car; I needed one. You know, to do important things, like drive myself to the local Burger Biggie to hang with my friends.
It turned out these folks were the car’s original owners; drove her off the showroom floor new in ‘54. She had the latest 261-cubic-inch overhead-valve Y-block V-8, replacing the venerable flathead V-8 that had powered millions of Ford products since 1932. A little chrome badge on the trunk proclaimed this machine was equipped with no mere transmission: It had a Merc-O-Matic. The Monterey was in original, unrestored condition, but hadn’t run in decades. And it was real dirty.
Mrs. Chicken Farmer agreed to give us the car if we cleared up the back registration and license fees, and paid the towing fee to get it off of her property. Sum total so far: $31. I had wheels. Sorta.
I’ll never forget the anguished look on my mother’s face when Tony’s Union 76 Towing Service tooled up our middle-class, suburban street and plopped the Chickenpoopmobile in the driveway. Now, Mom was used to this Car Thing. Dad had been a hot rodder since before WWII, so she’d been exposed. But this was something altogether new–and embarrassing. Neighbor kids laughed. Neighbor parents called. Mom cried. And I washed.
And scrubbed. And hosed and rinsed. And underneath those layers of casehardened dung was one gem of an automobile. Pure 1950s. Dad and I drained the gas tank, changed the spark plugs, points, condenser, rotor, oil, filters, and brake fluid. We cleaned and tightened and fiddled. The six-volt, lead-topped battery took two days to recharge. Would the car even run?
As is too often the case with the Super Bowl, the event itself wasn’t worth all the hype and worry: The Mercury fired on the first twist of the key. It was now sparkling (well, at least feces-free). The whole family hopped in, and we drove the car out to dinner that night. This time, Dad and I laughed. So did Mom.
We continued to improve the Merc while preserving its original condition and patina. But there was a problem. Not with the car–with me. Being a horsepower-hungry teen whose high-school parking lot was filled with Mustangs and Camaros, the Monterey just wasn’t cool enough. Dad could see, too, that while the Ye Olde Merc would be good sensible transport (and goodness knows, affordable – I think our total investment thus far was about $100), I just wasn’t going to be happy with it for long.
I needed something more befitting the President of the Alta Loma High School Marching Band. So I bought something a bit more appropriate–and a bit cooler: a 1971 Olds 442 with a 455-cubic-inch big-block, factory ram air fiberglass hood, and a Hurst shifter. Smack in the middle of the first Gas Crunch. Not so sensible. But way cool. You know, something with burbbling dual exhausts, that would burn rubber all the way up Euclid Avenue.
We sold the Merc to a neighbor, who repainted it and installed a set of glasspack mufflers. She paid us $200, a tidy profit over our original investment, even including the towing fee. Last we knew, she still had it.
Wish I did, too.