Tag: cars

Let’s just call it thinning the herd

“A hobby a day keeps the doldrums away.”
— Phyllis McGinley (1905 – 1978) Pulitzer Prize winning American author of children’s books and poetry.

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Everyone needs a hobby. Crafting. Creating. Collecting. I started collecting model cars as a kid before moving on to real ones.

And everybody has their own take on hobbies. A good friend and business associate, whose “hobby” was collecting cows (he called it “ranching”), quizzed me late one evening decades ago. “Isn’t it expensive and lots of work taking care of those old cars?”

Pitching another log on the fire we started to keep warm while out checking on his small herd before an impending cold front, I casually smiled and offered, “You mean as compared to taking care of cows.”

He grinned and I waited before adding in friendly jest, “I don’t recollect ever feeding my old cars in the rain and cold. And if I get busy and ignore them for a while, they’re still in the garage when I come back.”

I’m still tending to my dwindling herd these days. But a survey of the stable last week left me wondering if maybe it’s time to let one of my steeds go to someone else’s love and care. Perhaps the ’57 Thunderbird or the ’55 Ford Crown Victoria. I’ve had my grandmother’s “bought new” ‘57 Ford for more than 40 years. That one is family and will go to family when I can no longer care for it.

In the garage, I ran my fingertips in the dust along the rear fender of the Thunderbird’s mid-century tailfin styling. Then stuck my head inside the Crown Vic to get a fix of the distinctive aroma of old car upholstery before glancing at Granny’s car. Where new brake parts lay, still in boxes on the floor nearby. Where I placed them, saying, “I’ll get back to this next week.”

Was that earlier this year … or was it last year.?

They get started occasionally and maybe even driven around the block because I subscribe to the same life motto for my cars that I do for myself. It’s better to wear out than to rust out.

Fun and fast cars have been a part of my life since the day I was old enough to read automotive magazines. The day I put the comic books back on the shelf and purchased a copy of Car Craft.

That was also around the time I recall attending a quarter mile drag-racing event at the legendary dragstrip at the old Caddo Mills, Texas airfield. With Mount Pleasant High School senior Larry Ward. He worked after school at Perry Brothers, where Dad was the manager. Larry was a car guy with a cool ’54 Plymouth sporting a fresh “Battleship Gray” paint job and checkerboard flipper hubcaps. It fell my good fortune that Larry noticed this car-crazy kid and invited me to tag along with him and his girlfriend, Barbara Riley. Who also worked at Perry’s. And later became Mrs. Larry Ward.

That was actually my second drag race. Credit for attending my first goes to my father when I was about 9 or 10. Which is something I’ve never figured out because Dad had no appreciation whatsoever for flash or fast in automobiles. His transportation philosophies focused on six-cylinders, standard shift, no power, no A/C, just low-price, barebones rides.

Yet I vividly remember the West Texas racetrack near Lake Kemp when we lived in Seymour. I also never forgot being astounded at watching an old, beat-up-looking jalopy dust off a brand-new white 1958 Ford Thunderbird like it was sitting still.

I was hooked.

Dad began shaking his head when I bought my first car at 15 and started spending Friday nights at Stracener Drag Strip in Bettie, Texas, and Saturday nights at Interstate Raceway near Tyler. “Son,” he lectured me, “cars are just transportation to get from point A to point B.”

“Sorry Dad,” I said. “It’s too late … and you kinda started it.”

So, after stamps, model cars, and hot rod magazines, I’ve spent my three score and ten collecting cars. Like the ones I grew up with. Like I used to have. Like I wanted back then but couldn’t afford.

And now? The last in a long line sit slumbering in the garage. Is it time maybe one of them grace someone else’s garage? Spend sunny afternoons at car shows again? Awaken memories for others as they have for me?

Now, don’t go calling the retirement home. I’m not swapping my mid-50s bench seats for a recliner. Let’s just call it thinning the herd.

I’m not ready for the doldrums.

And I still need to get those brakes fixed on Granny’s car.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.

Adventures meant to be

“Blessed are the curious, for they shall have adventures.”
— Lovelle Drachman, author

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Adventure was not on my mind after another day at the newspaper office almost 40 years ago. I was simply cruising the day’s mail that included the newest issue of Hemmings Motor News (aka “the car nut’s bible). And the best place to satisfy anyone’s curiosity about any car for sale.

I braked to a stop in the Chevrolet ads when I saw, “For sale by original owner, 1965 Malibu SS, factory L-79 engine. Stored in Iowa.”

Cars collectors are known for many strange behaviors. Including, but not limited to, buying long lost siblings to something they had back in the day and “shoulda kept it.” Or wanted to have but couldn’t afford it then. And just about anything hidden away in storage for some time. Better known today as a “barn find.”

My story is no different. While still a student at East Texas State University, I became the third owner of a 1965 Chevy Malibu SS factory born with that same L-79 high horsepower motor as the car in the ad. I parted with the vehicle too soon, vowing quickly to replace it … if I ever found another one.

It was way after dark the night I saw the ad some 15 years after taking that vow. But I dialed the number anyway, apologizing profusely for the late hour when a lady’s voice said, “Hello.” My inquiry was met with, “My husband is working the night shift, all I can do is read the window sticker for you.”

That’s when I sensed my first adventure that was meant to be.

Combing the huge auto Pate Swap Meet near Fort Worth the next day, the car in the ad still weighed heavily on my mind. Near dawn the next morning, DFW airport was fading from view at my American Airlines window seat. Before lunch, I was shaking hands with the man who had special ordered the car as a high school student. Drooling over all the paperwork he had on the car and loving his stories.

“Because I wasn’t 18 yet,” he laughed. “The dealership required my mother to sign for the car because of the high-horsepower engine. And the car took five months to get, not because of the motor, but because I ordered a vinyl top. Figure that one out!”

Just days before my arrival, He had brought the car to his home in the northern Chicago suburb of Northbrook, Illinois, from his father’s home in Iowa, where it was stored. “They don’t salt the roads in the winter like they do here,” the car’s owner said, “Salted roads are the best way I know of to get the rust worm in your car.”

Technically speaking, a barn is not required for an old car to gain the status of barn find. When the rescue story is told, any neglected shelter leaving a coat of dust on a desirable relic will elevate that hidden ride to “barn find” status at the next storytelling night.

“Barn finds” are on the opposite end of the spectrum from beautifully restored cars bought at televised auctions for stratospheric prices. Often a little more revered in some circles. And almost always, the beginning of an automotive adventure.

The first decision with a barn find is whether to drive it home or trailer it. The owner had already changed the oil, filled the tank with fresh fuel, and washed away the “barn” dust. I checked fluids, tires, hoses, belts, and electrical.

My curiosity satisfied after a short test drive, I opted for the adventure … “Let’s drive ‘er home.” By 5 a.m. the next day, I was beating rush hour traffic out of the city. On board were some basic tools, an extra fan belt, a fire extinguisher, and a spare quart of oil. All acquired from an auto parts store the previous evening.

And a hand full of fast food joint coupons pulled from the newspaper.

Now, if you’re considering something similar at home, let me be transparent on this one point. Taking time to thoroughly assess a stored vehicle before driving it any distance is critical. Looking back, I could have been — should have been — much more thorough in this, my first rodeo, before putting Chicago in my rear-view mirror and a smile on my face.

Another point of perspective is that was back when gas station road maps were the only form of navigation, interstate highways were not as connected as they are today, and the only decent coffee was at truck stops.

GPS says in 2025 the nearly 1,000-mile trip will require 13 hours of driving time with good traffic. I made the same trip non-stop again in 2016, attending the Muscle Car and Corvette Nationals, using only Waze and hot, black coffee. Took me fourteen hours in a rental car.

The mid-1980s adventure in an aged muscle car that hadn’t seen daylight in a long time consumed 21 hours. On tires that “looked pretty good” but were manufactured before date coding where the rubber meets the road was a thing. I was easy on her, too. Monitoring gauges, listening for noises, and stopping regularly for visual inspections.

Granny always joked that “God takes care of old folks and fools.” Whatever the case, He was with me on that trip right up the time I turned into my driveway at 1 a.m. Without incident. Four tanks of gas, one quart of oil, and a myriad of tasteless fast food later.

Other trips would follow. The value of the treasure rescued aside; the adventure has always been the best part. Because even when the journey is without incident, there is always an interesting story to tell.

Like this one. One I’ve shared countless times in almost 40 years.

Every time with a smile.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2025. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and “A Story Worth Telling.”

Car problems, common sense and computers

“If your doctor’s last name is Google, it’s time to get a second opinion.”
— Toni Bernhard, author of “How to live with Chronic Pain and Illness: A Mindful Guide.”

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It was past dark thirty. We were still 15 miles from home, driving and passing the time doing what we all ultimately do sometime in life. Talking about the weather, aches and pains, and doctor’s appointments. Reassuring each other that age has nothing to do with any of it.

“What’s this,” I asked when amber warning lights interrupted the peaceful glow of dim green dash lights.

“I don’t know,” my friend said. It was her car, but I was driving.

Processing the situation, I tried offering assurance. “An amber check engine light, it’s not red. That’s good. Just means get your car checked at your first opportunity. We’re OK.”

I was trying to reassure her, but it sounded good to me too. It’s funny how issues that seem minor in the light of day trigger a higher level of concern at night. Depending on how late at night and how many miles to home the GPS is reporting.

She was searching the owner’s manual for clues. Anything about a warning light with a tiny car symbol looking like a drunk driver swerving all over the road.

Stopping for a minute in the light of a convenience store afforded us time to convince each other that the odds were good for making it home without further incidents. After all, it was only 10 miles from where we stopped.

As I drove, I thought about diagnosing car problems back in the day of keeping my first car running. Getting me to classes, to my after-school job, and cruising the Mount Pleasant main drag between the Dairy Queen on the north side and Bobby Joe’s on the south side.

The sign on top of what we called Bobby Joe’s read Dairy Mart or something similar. Nobody remembers that name. One of our classmate’s family owned it, so we referred to it as Bobby Joe’s. And keeping your car running to get there Friday and Saturday night was a priority.

But auto maintenance was easy then. Just keep gas, oil, and tire pressure levels in range and listen for weird noises. Noises, not computers, provided the best clues regarding the nature of any problems under the hood, and any level of confidence in keeping your ride on the road.

Being young and fearless also added to one’s confidence level back in the day. A 60-mile road trip to the drag races in a worn-out but presentable 55 Chevy with a warmed-over Corvette motor that I had owned all of about two weeks? No worries. Never mind that I knew nothing about the car for which I had paid the princely sum of $250 … other than it sounded good and was wicked fast.

I had learned that the gas gauge and the dash lights didn’t work. No problem, though. I filled the tank with 29-cents a gallon high test, and we headed south for Interstate 20 Raceway.

The daylight trip down was uneventful. On the way home about 10:30, neighbor and my friend Ronald Rust asked, “How fast you think we’re going?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Can’t see the speedometer. Ronald leaned down, nose close to the dash. The only light glowing was the red high-beam indicator. “What’s the top number on the speedometer,” he asked?

“Hunderd’ and ten … I think.”

“Must be doin’ 115 then. I can’t see the needle.”

“Naw,” I scoffed. The car sounded good. But darkness began creating noises in my mind, so I backed off the accelerator. Still don’t think we were going that fast.

But a little common sense and paying attention to what you heard made car care relatively easy in those days. Now, mechanical contrivances controlled by a myriad of computers and electronics can defy common sense.

For instance, YouTube videos the next day offered head-scratching remedies for the warning lights we encountered with my friend’s car. The drunk driver warning light reportedly indicated a problem in how the computer distributes power to the wheels. The warning could be, according to the video, caused by improper pressure in the tires, potholes in the road, or a faulty gas cap.

Faulty gas cap! Seriously? Yep, that’s somehow in the same computer circuit as air pressure and potholes. But wait, we had in fact refueled about 30 miles previous to the warning lights coming on.

By the time I watched the video the next day, the warning lights had gone away as quickly as they had appeared. Still gone as I conclude this missive. A trip to the dealership is planned however. My friend never misses a date on the maintenance schedule. She’s going for a professional second opinion with computer codes.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” she mused, “if we could be like cars.”

I wasn’t connecting the dots.

“You, know. For aches, pains, and illnesses, just show up at the doctor’s office. Let them plug you in, check your computer codes, make a technical repair or replace a faulty part, and you’re good for another 10,000 miles.”

I think she may be on to something.

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are featured in these publications: The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche,  the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2024. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.