Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale (2 Viewers)

[gwalt584]

Owens First Drive in the FJ40

OK, Owen is 2 and loves equipment, trucks and driving. I shot this video several weeks ago. I just uploaded it to YouTube.
So, for a laugh you can enjoy Owen driveing my FJ40 around my yard. he even found the shifter and shifted it several times. Oh, and then he found the horn, what a treat. Sam his older brother was in the back talking. That is Owen's dad in the passenger seat. Notice Owen removing my hand from the steering wheel. Great stuff.
enjoy
FJ40 First Drive - YouTube

 

[sarca]

OK, Owen is 2 and loves equipment, trucks and driving. I shot this video several weeks ago. I just uploaded it to YouTube.
So, for a laugh you can enjoy Owen driveing my FJ40 around my yard. he even found the shifter and shifted it several times. Oh, and then he found the horn, what a treat. Sam his older brother was in the back talking. That is Owen's dad in the passenger seat. Notice Owen removing my hand from the steering wheel. Great stuff.
enjoy
FJ40 First Drive - YouTube

The little man was SERIOUS about driving!! Great Stuff!

 

[gwalt584]

Gimme a break. It's 109 degrees in the shade here. I'm workin' on it, but this heat is killin' me.

While you're waiting, here's an inspiring 40 photo...

I am catching up on this thread and noticed that the doors in that 40 really need new gaskets. Right!!!

 

[juanchogaviria]

Thought i would share yhis for all beer lovers...

 

[juanchogaviria]

sorry the image came too small, here´s the link...

Beer Saved The World | OnlineBachelorDegreePrograms.com

 

[cruiserjunkie]

Come on commander give me something!!

 

[davegonz]

Damn junkies.

 

[Black Rhino 13]

So, I drove MY cruiser from Missoula to Seattle last week. Sorry, no adventures to speak of there. Took my 7 year old daughter. Got my passport same day at the Seattle passport agency. Girl pic:

We crossed over to British Columbia to get my new rear bumper from Jason at Cruisin Offroad about an hour east of Vancouver. No boat rides to Hawaii. Did attend a "Show and shine" event for the Coastal Cruisers there in B.C. though. Lots of Cruisers. So, thought I'd throw some pics in of the 40's since this is about 40's.

These are just the group members who posed for a shot after the show:

We had a nice drive across southern B.C. I'm now preparing for my own family trip to Alaska. Hopefully we can pull it off next summer. This was a nice little bit of recon and the new rear bumper is great. Thanks, Jason!

Saw a black bear on B.C. Hwy 3.

This thread has been great and I'm confident our Commander will be leading us again. Looking forward to the next chapter. It's better than just waitin around to die.

 

[86tuning]

Cruisin Offroad is a great shop to deal with.

 

[Sea Knight]

Come on commander give me something!!

This thread has been great and I'm confident our Commander will be leading us again. Looking forward to the next chapter. It's better than just waitin around to die.

I got something in the incubator. Not really a rustbucket chapter per se, more of a bonus feature. Will try to finish up and get it posted tonight.

BTW, I got yer reference. You can't slip a TVZ lyric by me.

"Sometimes I don't know where this dirty road is taking me
Sometimes I can't even see the reason why
I guess I'll keep on gamblin', lots of booze and lots of ramblin'
It's easier than just a-waitin' 'round to die"​

 

[juanchogaviria]

 

[myquestoyota]

Geeze, every time I see "NEW" I think we have another chapter and what do I see instead?
Something like this ""

 

[lordbater]

deal with it peeps, it will come, and be worth it I'm certain.

......

carry on...

a

 

[Sea Knight]

Old Men, Old Iron

"I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of their wisdom.”
--- Umberto Eco, Foucault's Pendulum

I'm just back from a family reunion, at Lake Conroe, in the piney woods of east Texas. My wife and I, our son and his family from British Columbia, our daughter and her family from Frisco. Eleven of us, five of them kids. A small reunion, smaller than we'd hoped. My wife's parents passed away years ago, much too young; they never met the grand kids. My Mom died last summer. My Dad, Army, left us in February. This gathering had been on the drawing board for years, dating back to a time when both my parents were living. For me it was a reminder of the folly of procrastination, and a refresher course in what's important, and what isn't. What does this have to do with 40's, or Land Cruisers, or the rustbucket tale? Maybe nothing, and maybe everything. Perhaps it's just another amusing story about old men, old trucks, and coincidence. I don't know. You decide.

On Sunday, February 5th, I drove to Whataburger and bought a green chile cheeseburger, a jumbo order of fries, a large Pepsi, and took them to my Dad in his little apartment at Concordia Senior Living Center. He was in Oklahoma City, recently widowed, only days out of rehab, and recovering from a stroke. He was now alone, and we planned to move him to our house in Austin as soon as he received medical clearance to travel. The apartment was nice, almost luxurious, but it was only a temporary solution and it wasn't home. He was looking forward to living with us, with family. We were guessing the move would take place around Father's Day.

This wasn't an ordinary Sunday. It was Superbowl Sunday, and Army was an avid football fan. College, pro, all teams, all the time. If there was a game on, he was glued to the television. That day he was particularly excited because the Patriots were meeting the New York Giants, one of his favorite teams. He'd requested the cheeseburger and fries as his special Superbowl meal. Anything to avoid nursing home food, he said. He made quick work of the burger and fries, and we watched the entire spectacle from start to finish--the pre-game show, the game, post game interviews, and all the commercials, ten long hours. Army was elated that his team not only won, but a gangly Mississippi kid, Eli Manning, was voted the game's MVP. He was proud of his Mississippi roots, and pleased the hometown boy was doing well. It was almost midnight when I helped him into bed, and left him there, tired but happy.

The following morning, at 5 AM, the charge nurse called from Concordia. Army had been found unconscious, collapsed on the floor halfway between his bathroom and bed, barely breathing. They'd called EMS, and he was already in route to the emergency room. The hospital was less than a mile from my parents house, and I beat the ambulance there. By the time Army arrived he was stable, but classified as critical. The ER docs found a raging case of pneumonia in both lungs, and a massive pleural effusion, a fluid accumulation, in his right pleural cavity. They drained almost 3 liters of fluid from his right chest, and admitted him to ICU. One ER doctor said he thought it was unbelievable that Army had been able to sit through the Superbowl, given his age and medical condition. All I could think to say in response was "Ha. You don't know my Dad. He'll beat this."

Beginning that day, February 6th, I camped in my Dad's hospital room. Most of the rustbucket chapters posted during the month of February were written in his room, at his bedside. The Turtle's clutch failure in Pueblo, chilling in Denver, the blizzard outside Fort Collins, Cheyenne, and probably others that I don't recall now. Most days were the same. Go to hospital. Sit in chair while Army sleeps. Read newspaper. Surf the internet. Surf MUD. Write a few paragraphs. Confer with his docs on morning rounds. Help him eat. And talk with him when he's awake. There was a lot of talking. I learned things about my Dad I'd never heard before, things he'd mention matter-of-factly and then move to another topic while I was still trying to absorb what he'd just said. One evening we were watching the network news when a Fiat commercial came on. It was one of those quick, in-your-face commercials that only last a few seconds. When it was over my Dad said "Was that a Fiat?" I confirmed that it was, and he said he didn't know they still made Fiats. He said he'd never cared much for those flimsy little foreign cars. He was a Ford and General Motors man, big Detroit iron, and he never paid attention to anything that wasn't American made.

He closed his eyes and I thought he was sleeping, but a few minutes later, out of the blue...

Army: "We took the Fiat factory in Turin. It was either '44 or '45. The fighting was terrible, bodies everywhere, hundreds of casualties, but we had to take it.

Me: "What did you just say?"

Army: "Mussolini's boys were using the plant to build planes and weapons, for them and the Germans. We took 'em out. Then we bivouacked there for a week. There in the factory."

Me: "What? You did what?"

Army: "I remember it was cold. Bitter damn cold. Groups of little Italian kids following us around, begging for food. They all looked like they were starving. They probably were. Probably were orphans. We gave them what we had. Everything we could spare. Poor kids. They were the real victims.

Me: "And then what?"

Army: "Nothing. We packed up and moved on. It was war, son...It was war."

Then he dozed off. Later that week, I began catching up on emails and PM's that had been accumulating since Army's hospitalization. Most of them were from MUD members who followed the rustbucket thread, offering prayers for his recovery and wishing him well. I read them to him, every post, every email and PM, and he came to know some of you by name, others by screen name, and he'd sometimes ask if I'd heard from specific MUD'ers. He seemed amazed and humbled that MUD members in New Zealand, and Holland, Australia, Canada, and Colombia were asking about him. One recent PM was from Steve, known to most of you as Poser. It was a message that I'd overlooked during the confusion of the previous week. Steve and I had already exchanged several PM's about our parents and grandparents, and in his last PM he'd provided a link to his thread in the classic cars forum. It's the story of acquiring and rebuilding his grandfather's 1931 Ford. I hadn't known there was a MUD classics forum until Steve sent the link, but there it was...

Link----> https://forum.ih8mud.com/classics-collectors/202985-picked-up-another-ford.html

Being about an old car from his era, I thought the story would interest my Dad. The following morning I read Steve's thread to him, and showed him photos of the rusty old Ford. He loved the story, and asked me to read parts of it to him several times over, especially Steve's account of his family's history with the car. He'd listen and then say "You see, it's not just about the car or truck, son. It's about the places they take you, and the memories they carry. It's about history." For the first time in several days Army perked up, and started telling me about his first car. It was a story I'd never heard.

His family was poor, what would have been called dirt poor, even by Great Depression standards. He rarely spoke about those days, and I always assumed it was because he was embarrassed about growing up in poverty. It never occurred to me that his reluctance had nothing to do with being embarrassed. Those were times that were simply too painful for him to remember. His parents never owned a car or truck; at age 20 he'd never been behind the wheel of any vehicle other than a farm tractor. Almost 21 and he didn't know how to drive a car.

So this is the story of his first car, as he told it. In early 1941, Army and his best friend, Johnny Keys, decided to pool their savings and buy a car. Johnny couldn't drive either, but they didn't see their lack of driving skills as an obstacle. First they went to the license bureau, paid $2 each, and were issued driver's licenses. There was no test, written or road. Just sign a form and cough up two bucks, and they were legal. Then they found a car they could afford. It was a 1937 Ford Coupe, and it wouldn't run. The owner was a wealthy railroad executive who had run out of patience. He had what he thought was a problem car, and he didn't want to pay for any more repairs. He didn't know why it wouldn't run, and didn't care. It had become a headache and he was selling it for salvage. They paid $200 for the Ford, towed it to my Dad's uncle's farm behind a John Deere tractor, and pushed it into the barn. Over the next week, through trial and error, they found the carb jets were clogged with something that looked like tar. They disassembled the carb, cleaned it with turpentine, changed the spark plugs, poured in fresh gas, and the engine fired up immediately. It had cost them less than $10 to get it running.

They started taking daily drives on deserted farm roads and old logging trails where no one would see them, teaching themselves how to feather the clutch and learning by feel when to change gears. At first it was difficult to steer and shift at the same time. They'd either stay on the road and forget to shift, or shift and run off the road, but eventually they mastered the technique and began driving in public, to school, around town, and finally, when they developed confidence, on dates.

The engine was a little flathead Ford V-8, that he described as sweet and fast. He said it was one of the two best engines ever built, ranking right up there with the small block Chevy; American engineering at its best. Using the word "sweet" sounded strange coming from a 91 year old, but there was a far away twinkle in his eye when he talked about the little Ford coupe, and I sensed that he was fondly recalling that short, peaceful intermission between the poverty of the depression, and the big war.

They drove the Ford to college during the Spring and Fall semesters of 1941 and split possession on weekends, until Pearl Harbor was bombed. My Dad and Johnny both withdrew from school in December and joined the Army together, selling their car for $300. He said they felt pretty good about owning it for less than a year and walking away with a $100 profit, big money in 1941. He remembers buying a gift for his girlfriend at the time, the girl who would later become my Mom, and giving the remaining cash to his mother. Army told me that if I'd rummage through the box of old photos in his closet at home, I should be able to find pictures of his first car. He said that if I uncovered the photos, he'd like to see them again. I promised to look, and bring them to the hospital the following day. That may have been our last real conversation. I know it's the last one that I can remember.

By the next day, Army had taken a sudden turn for the worst. On February 18th, I posted this to the rustbucket thread:

"I want all of you to know that Army and I appreciate your kind words, thoughts and prayers. I take a laptop to the hospital daily and read your latest comments to him. To say that he's touched would be an understatement.

Yesterday afternoon Army asked his doc when he might be discharged. She told him that the recovery time for pneumonia was typically 2-4 weeks and given his age, probably not soon. He told her, and I want to be sure I have this exactly right:

"You're obviously not used to dealing with anyone as tough as me."

That was yesterday. Today he seems worse. This morning he had another pleural tap and 2.3 liters of fluid was removed from his right chest. He's breathing with great difficulty and when he's awake he's very confused. He sleeps most of the time. Confusion is a common symptom of pneumonia and I'm trying not to make too much of it, but the poor guy isn't in good shape. As long as he's here, I'm here with him."

Several times daily he'd awaken and ask when I'd be "busting him out" of the hospital. He asked me to remind him of the date, and wanted to be reassured that he'd be discharged in time for the family reunion at Lake Conroe. He'd never met his two youngest great granddaughters, the girls from Canada, and finally getting to see them seemed to dominate his thoughts.

Army fought, and he fought, just as he always had, but this time he couldn't quite turn the corner. On Monday night, February 27th, barely three weeks after the Superbowl, we watched the evening news together, and he remarked that I looked tired. He thought I should go. I told him I intended to stay until later in the evening, but he insisted that I leave. He said he'd be fine, that he was going to sleep early. He said I needed to go to the farm, and milk the cows. I waited until he dropped off to sleep, and returned to the house, thinking about milking the cows. Army grew up on a farm, but we'd never owned a farm, or cows.

I was barely asleep when the call came, shortly after 1 AM. It was the dreaded call you don't want to acknowledge, the ring you recognize even before answering. It was the night shift nurse, telling me that Army's vital signs were poor; his respiration and heart rate were falling rapidly. She said "I believe your father is about to expire. He's asking for you." Words you don't forget. I didn't make it to the hospital in time. Army passed that morning, minutes after her call; it was February 28th. Weeks later, plundering through his papers, I found a photo of his old Ford and our last conversation, old men and old iron, stuck in my mind.

Now it's May, and three months have passed since Army's death. It's still fresh, but other things are happening. One of my neighbors is a fellow Land Cruiser enthusiast. I've known him for several years, and it's fair to say that he's become more than just a neighbor. He's a good friend. I'll call him Craig, because, well, his name is Craig. I won't comment on his age, but he wisely waited a bit longer than most of us to get married. It was a solid plan, because he found the right girl, or they found each other, and their wedding is scheduled for the end of May at a resort near Austin, a big affair. Craig is a high tech, big city guy now, but he was born and raised in a small Texas Panhandle town. His people are farmers. At the wedding, I notice Craig's Dad is standing off from the crowd, by himself, surveying the scene. He looks as though he's out of his comfort zone, and I think we may have a few things in common, so I walk over and introduce myself. He's a nice guy, someone you'd describe as a salt of the earth type, old enough to be retired, but still farming his land. He's plain spoken, and reminds me of a younger version of Army. We have a long conversation about everything from the draught in West Texas to outrageous gas prices, and finally, inevitably, we talk about old trucks. We talk about the shared interest his son and I have in vintage Land Cruisers, and somewhere along the way I mention my Dad and his '37 Ford, and my first driving experience, sitting in his lap in a '53 Ford pickup. I tell him that I never saw my Dad's Ford coupe, but I have great memories of his pickup, and wish I owned it now. He says something like "Yep, they don't make trucks like they used to, or anything else for that matter." My Dad could have said that. Or me. We talk a while longer, and eventually we drift apart.

Three weeks later, it's Saturday, June 16th, the day before Father's Day. My wife is working in California, my son and his family are in Canada, my daughter and her family are visiting in-laws in Atlanta. I'm alone, and it's about to be the first Father's Day without my Dad. I'm already getting an empty feeling, and I'm considering what I might do on Sunday to pass the time. There's no lack of options--take a country drive, hit the Flying Saucer pub for $3 Father's Day pints, catch a movie, wrench on a Cruiser, or just stay home and do nothing. Craig calls and asks if I have anything on tap for the next day. His wife isn't in town, and he has an idea. I should come to his house, watch the final round of the US Open golf tournament, help him empty his keg of Oatmeal Stout, and eat pizza. I don't play golf, but I do enjoy watching, and I like pizza and stout, so I tell him to count me in.

Sunday afternoon, February 17th, I show up at Craig's house and he waves me in. He has the golf tournament on pause, and he's talking on the phone. He paces around and continues talking for a long time after I arrive. Then he hangs up and says "That was amazing. I just talked to my Dad for 50 minutes. I don't think we've ever talked that long." I remind him that it's Father's Day and he says he knows, but his Dad just doesn't have lengthy telephone conversations. Even more remarkable, he says, his Dad has just asked if he'd like to have his Grandfather's truck, a 1952 Chevy pickup. It seems his Dad met "some fella" at the wedding and they talked about old trucks, and it got him thinking about the old pickup, just sitting there on the farm, not being used by anyone, and he wondered if Craig would like to have it, to hold on to a little piece of their family's history. Craig said he'd been trying to work up courage to ask for his Grandfather's truck for years, but there never seemed to be a right time. He asked if I was "that fella" from the wedding, the one who talked to his Dad about old trucks. Yep, I guess that was me.

So there it is...

Steve's Grandfather's 1931 Ford, Army's 1937 Ford, Craig's Grandfather's 1952 Chevy Pickup. Old men, old iron.

 

[2thdoc]

Perspective....and plenty of it! Thanks, Lee!

 

[juanchogaviria]

Nice man, thanks!!

 

[Copenhagen1]

Great chapter! Thanks Lee!

 

[kling-on]

Great read thx for sharing

 

[myquestoyota]

Your story conjured up two images I had to find. My Dad in 1944 and the cheeseburger. Good read Commander, thank you.

My Dad passed in much the same manner, I spent his last day on Earth at his bedside as well.

 

[77mustard40]

OMA, your posts usually greet me just after I have silenced the alarm. This morning I stayed in bed before first light and read your post via my overnight email notification from MUD. As always I'm appreciative of your simple insight, its a great way to get your head screwed on straight before wading off into the abyss that seems to become the day to day norm.

Dropped back into the thread at work to see the pictures which of course sent me veering into Poser's thread as well.

I appreciate your midnight labors and look forward to tilting a Saint Arnolds DR12 with you at weeks end.