I feel as though it is a
rite of passage of sorts for any classic car enthusiast to be driving and spot
a rusted up muscle car in the corner of someone’s yard with four flat tires and
what was once a car cover draped over the antenna and blowing in the wind. The next logical step is always to pull a
u-turn, park on the side of the road, and knock on that front door to ask if
the car is for sale. More likely than
not, some little old lady will answer by wagging her finger in your face as she
goes on about how her husband, who passed twenty five years ago, parked that
car there and that is where it will stay until it is her time to go. The content of the reasoning may differ, but
I’ve found it to be rare that someone responds with, “You know, miss, I was thinking
of selling that old thing. Make me an
offer!”
Let me preface- I am not questioning or belittling
anyone who wants their car to weather away with them…to each their own. However, I think it is important to recognize
that once these cars that we love so much are gone…that’s it. They’re gone. Every key to an American Muscle car that sits
in someone’s pocket, or purse, or the key ring dangling from the belt loop of
their pants is far more than the ignition key to their ride, it’s the key to
our history. With every key out there
that powers our muscle cars, we unlock the history of our country and our
hobby. It is my fear that by the time my
future children are ready to restore a Mopar of their own, there may not be
many left because so many people allow vehicles with so much potential so rot
away in their yard, as if they are some sort of steel flower pot for a tree to
grow from.
All of the cars that I own or have restored were, at
one point or another, left to rot away.
My Charger was a barn find, a jungle gym for cats and other small barn
creatures, which sat dormant for twenty one years before I took it home. My RoadRunner belonged to my Dad’s cousin who
parked the car up against an embankment close to a main road, where the shower
of road salt in the winter and damp ground in the summer rotted it from both
ends…and the middle. The Plymouth Satellite, which I intend to use as a parts
car for the RoadRunner, was once the part’s car for one man’s dream project
that got set on the back burner due to health and financial problems. The Ram D150 that I am currently restoring
sat in a field outside of Nashville for years and the CJ5 that I restored last
year was left to be absorbed in the caked on Alabama mud that it had bathed in
after an off-roading accident. It has
become an essential aspect of my life as a Mopar enthusiast that any vehicle I
have or restore is one that I rescued in some way or another. A vehicular parallel to those animal
activists that preach, “Don’t shop. Adopt.”
I decided to compose this blog entry after a day of
junk yarding with my Dad. Nestled in the
back corner of Joe’s EZ Pull was a three acre lot of classics. Mid-sixties Chryslers, a variety of Valiants,
a stray Duster here and there, and quite a few Dodge trucks sat picked nearly
clean on cinder blocks. As we waded down
the aisle, stepping over flattened hub caps and bent window molding or pieces
of trim, it was almost as if I wanted to lay a rose on the hood of each Mopar
(given that they still had a hood) and offer my condolences to the person out
there who is searching for a Mopar to restore.
All I could think about was how, at some point in time, these cars were
someone’s daily drivers. At some point
in time, they had to potential to be someone’s father-daughter project…just
like my Charger was. All of the emotions
that I was feeling came into collation when I walked up to a 1972 Dodge
Charger…in Sherwood green, the factory color of The Little Black Dress. That Charger was mangled. The front end was lifted so far up in the air
that I could stand under the grill. The
front valence was bent in half and dangling by one screw, both doors had been
picked and the cracking bondo in the quarters was easily visibly through the
faded, peeling paint. The hood lay in a puddle on the ground and the interior was
simply dirty fabric and springs jammed up against the dash. As I stood there, noticing the similarities
that this junkyard find had to my award winner…I got a little choked up.
I don’t have a lot of money. I come from a middle class family and I sell
cars for a living (not well, mind you, because I value the relationship between
the vehicle and the owner more than the profit made). It’s not like someone just stroked a check
for the money I needed to restore my Charger.
I worked hard, two jobs at times, just to make my dream come true. It was important to me that I did not
purchase someone else’s hard work. I
wanted to build something of my own and what better foundation to start with
than something I saved from the same fate as this Charger that rolled off the
line not much earlier than mine? As I
stood there, staring at this poor Dodge, it became clear to me that I was
insanely fortunate to have the means to restore my car. I was fortunate to have been taught the skills
that it required and to be able to pull together the extra money I needed. I was given the opportunity to change my
life, and if The Little Black Dress could talk, I know she would agree that I
changed hers. It broke my heart to leave
that Charger there (I did score a hood release cable out of it, so I felt as
though I was saving something) because it should have never gotten to the point
that it ended up in a junk yard. It should have been rescued while it was still
salvageable for the average enthusiast, it should have been rescued by someone who
just wants to save the lives of our American Muscle.
