It’s “Power Wagon Wednesday!” I’m not entirely sure if I made that up, or
if someone else is out there looking for a reason to blow up their social media
accounts with their Power Wagons.
Regardless, it seems to fit so I’m going to roll with it. I like “Power Wagon Wednesday” because it
gives me a warranted opportunity to share with you a little bit about my second
“Foster Mopar.”
The 1966 Dodge Power Wagon W-150
Town Wagon that I have had the pleasure of fostering the past two years will
soon find it’s way back to its real home.
My heart aches knowing that I won’t be able to look outside and see it
staring back at me, but I wanted to share some of my favorite Power Wagon
memories…not only for you to enjoy, but for me to look back upon when I’m
missing it a bit more than usual.
I thrive on car shows, but one
muggy afternoon in late July of 2013, as the troops were gathering with their
rumbling Mopars in our driveway, I had considered skipping the Moonlight
Memories Car Show that we had registered for early in the summer. I had a bad feeling, one of those gut
feelings where you can imagine someone behind you, warning you to stop. I almost didn’t go, but I threw on my Mopar
tee-shirt and hopped behind the wheel of The Little Black Dress. Among the last to arrive, we were at the
very end of the entrance line. Everyone
was creeping up on hot, sweating against their vinyl seats. As many cursed the dog days of summer, our
complaining was silenced by the distinct sound of crumbling metal. A driver had passed out because of the heat,
smashing into the car in front of him.
Chaos evolved around us as EMTs arrived and car guys helped car guys in
spite of brand preference. My bad feeling
was getting heavier as I watched a grown man helplessly hang his head as he
surveyed the damage on his pride and joy.
Time passed and we finally made it to our place in the car show. In typical Michaela fashion, I wandered up
the main drag to try to find a bathroom.
I ducked into a packed pizza shop where four people waited in front of
me to use their single bathroom. What
does this have to do with the Power Wagon?
Had all of these very strange occurrences not taken place, I likely
would have never seen it. For, as I
walked out of the pizza shop (mind you this had become a fifteen minute
excursion), there it was, backing up to the sidewalk I had just stepped
onto. My bad feeling disappeared. Rich exhaust billowed out of the
dual pipes as I walked towards it, coming to a dead stop and basking in the
sight of this monumental structure with a reaction similar to how I imagine
that of those who first saw the sunken Titanic creep up on them out of the
darkest depth’s of the ocean. As I
halted to a stop, mesmerized by this truck, a man, balancing a funnel cake on his
hand like a waiter would carry a pizza, walked straight into me, clouding my
view with an actual cloud of powdered sugar, which settled nicely onto my
shirt. Unsure of how to react, the poor
guy clumsily offered me a napkin as he picked his funnel cake up off the
ground. I waved him off and pushed
through the crowd to the gentlemen getting out of the truck. I can only imagine what he thought as a girl,
covered in powdered sugar, approached him, firing out twenty questions about
his truck. When I asked if it was for
sale, he shrugged and said “It doesn’t fit in my garage.” That’s where it all began…
The car show was a Saturday, a few
quick texts back and forth with the gentlemen who owns the CJ5, and we were
scheduled to go look at the Power Wagon that Thursday. Fast forward through an emotional roller
coaster of a week and here we are, me and four southern men, in a tour bus,
navigating tiny Philly streets, waiting for the Power Wagon to catch our
eye. Evidently, they were as impressed
as I was and after a quick spin around the block, we planned to pick it up on
Tuesday. I could elaborate, but I’ll do
my best to keep this blog post centered around the automotive theme which I had
intended… but trust when I say that this Power Wagon was a borderline miracle,
nearly too good to be true. Too many
things fell into the perfect places and they continued as I rode shotgun while
we pulled out of the previous owners driveway.
We stopped about a mile up the road for gas. A less-than-comforting crowd circled the
Dodge, admiring it until we pulled out onto the highway and headed home. With no insurance or license plate, while
firing on only half it’s cylinders, we cruised down the PA Turnpike at a steady
65mph. Upon our arrival, we sat in the
back and dreamed up restoration ideas.
Stretching my legs out against the splintering plywood, I envisioned so
many possibilities, I dreamed so many dreams.
I never dreamed that it would be gone some day, but I also never dreamed
that it would drive itself into the collision center of the dealership I work
for…yet it did that too.
Over the next couple of months, my
dad and I worked to get the Power Wagon running at it’s best. A simple valve adjustment and that thing
purred like a kitten. Well, maybe less
like a kitten and more like a mountain lion, but you get the idea. We made little repairs like getting the turn
signals to work and replacing the brittle hosing. As winter came, the tinkering ceased, as it
was one of the worst winters we’d seen in a while and the Power Wagon didn’t
fit in the garage. When The South called
and told me that I would be exchanging the “Big Green Monster,” as they had
deemed it, for the D150, we opted to bring it up to work to finish some last
minute repairs inside. As an ice storm
commenced and PA experienced record lows, my Dad and I chugged to work in the
Power Wagon. One of my favorite things
about that old Dodge is that it ALWAYS fires up on the first try…even when the
high is a whole nine degrees. We parked
it outside of our body shop where everyone spent the morning oohing and ahhing
over it. Many people, myself included,
had never seen a “Townie” in the flesh until the Power Wagon made it’s way into
my life. I adore the attention it gets and
apparently, the Power Wagon adores that attention too, for when my co-workers
all wandered back to their respective posts, the Power Wagon hadn’t quite had
it’s fill of praise. A crack in the
starter solenoid caused contact to be made, and the Power Wagon cranked itself
across our parking lot and up the hill, right into the garage door leading to
our collision repair center. One of our
body men had to jump in and stop it.
When he came to my office to tell me, I thought he was kidding. When I went out back and say the tire tracks,
I briefly considered renaming the “Big Green Monster,” and calling it
“Christine.”
It headed south that afternoon,
only to find it’s way back to me. In
May, when it heads back for good, I’ll be left with some great memories, a few
trophies, and a dead spot in my lawn.
I’ll always remember the ride home- how the wind blew my hair around,
allowing it to collect the scent of the exhaust, how I looked over to my left
and saw a beautifully bearded man driving like he’d been in that seat his whole
life… it was like a real life country song.
It was my country song; the melody was that off beat rumble of a
poly318. I could have listened to it on
repeat! It's those moments, filled with the excitement and promise of a new Mopar, that I think everyone deserves the right to feel, because I'm yet to feel anything quite like it.
I plan to take the Power Wagon to
two car shows this Spring, where I can relish in those memories as I share it’s
story with those who feel obliged to ask me what it is or how on earth I ended
up with one. I hope you enjoyed the
little bit I chose to share with you tonight.
And, I hope you all have a wonderful “Power Wagon Wednesday!”
