Power Wagon Wednesday

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!”