I was cautioned over a decade ago by a generational Adventist: “A lot of Adventists don’t have a sense of humor, Gerry.” But some do.
I’m the kind of guy that sees everything twice. There is a dry, mundane way of looking at life’s experiences, and there is a lighthearted way of looking at life, seeng in it bit of humor mingled with lessons. I close this lighthearted story with a spiritual application. If you smile along the way, the effort put forth in writing it will be greatly justified.
It was a 1967 Ford Country Sedan station wagon. Pale blue, with a 390 V8 engine. My family owned it from 1971 to 1976, but they stopped driving it in 1976, after it developed a ghastly dent on the right side.
The Yield Sign
My first experience with a yield sign happened about 60 days after receiving my driver’s license in 1976. I failed to yield and a car came around the corner cornfield and hit the station wagon on the right side, smashing both doors in and knocking the car in the ditch. I rolled the driver’s window down and crawled out to survey the damage. It was now a Beater Car, a semi-mangled blue behemoth.
Dad said, “You might as well have the car, since you autographed it.” It was my first car, and it didn’t matter that it was a Beater Car. It was perfect for a sixteen-year old boy.
My friend Scott and I immediately went to work. We sawed off the exhaust pipes with a hacksaw and installed two Thrush mufflers, one on each side. That made it almost as loud as a jackhammer in a cathedral. With what little spare cash I had, I also installed an 8-track tape player so I could listen to ABBA, CCR, and BTO above the roar of the new mufflers. AOK.
We got a bag of racing stickers and stuck them on the rear side windows. I am convinced that those stickers added a least ten horsepower to the car. I couldn’t afford the expensive stickers (which add up to twenty horsepower), but, we made do. The Beater Car was slipshod, dangerous and unseemly. We both liked it a lot!
It had an automatic transmission and a cool hand brake that my dad had installed. With Scott’s help, I perfected the art of neutral drops in the Beater Car. This consisted of revving the 390 engine up to 3500 rpm and pulling the gearshift lever down into drive. “Krrunch!!!” The car would lurch forward to the sound of squealing tires and squealing occupants. This practice continued until a clunking noise alerted us to the sound of a failing rear end. (It was a good thing my dad didn’t own the car anymore, I might have experienced some rear end trouble of my own.) So we bought a used rear end at the junkyard and swapped it for the bad one in the Beater Car. Problem solved.
Big Al
One snowy night I drove the Beater Car over to Scott’s house. After playing bumper pool for two hours, we decided to go for a drive. Scott asked if he could drive. “Sure” I responded. “Just be careful.”
“Ha! I know how to drive” Scott assured me, confidently.
As we turned onto road behind their house, Scott floored the gas pedal and we went screeching around the corner (the car, on the other hand was silent). What wasn’t silent were the thumping sounds the car made as it caromed out into a plowed field, bouncing over the frozen earth like a bowling ball on a rocky path. Being an ‘expert driver’, Scott kept the gas pedal floored and the car dug in to the icy earth about 40’ from the road. The Beater Car was now a teeter car, perched precariously on those clumps of frozen soil.
“I thought you knew how to drive” I sniffed as we walked back home. Silence . .
“Hey, I have an idea, Scott said.” We’ll get my Dad’s truck and some chains and pull the car out of the field.”
“Sounds good” I replied.
“Just one thing” Scott added. “When we ask my dad (Big Al) for permission to use his truck, don’t tell him I’m the one who ran it in the ditch.” Big Al could be intimidating.
“Well, that only leaves me as the potential driver” I said.
“Exactly” said Scott. “That’s perfect!”
“Oh, all right” I agreed. The things you do for friends…
We told our story to Big Al. I was sixteen years old that day and I am sixty-six, now—I shall never forget the look of disdain that Big Al lavished upon me when Scott informed him why we needed to borrow his truck. “Oh really!” Big Al said, regarding me with all the contempt of Fidel Castro being asked to attend a seminar on capitalism. He handed over the keys with scornful glance my direction. With a long shake of his head, he walked away to inform his very nice wife what poor judgment his son had in choosing friends.
We found a dry spot in the road and managed to pull the car out. Whew. I managed to avoid big Al’s gaze the rest of the month.
The Big Snowdrift
The winters of 1977-1979 in Ohio were pretty severe, with the Blizzard of 1978 being the exclamation point in a series of bad winters. Global Freezing was all the rage and many young lads bought four wheel drive trucks, forsaking the classic cars of the 60’s and 70’s. One evening, Scott and I were driving around Covington after a big snowstorm. We pulled into a large factory parking lot and noticed a huge snowdrift about 48” tall running laterally across the large loading dock area. There was plenty of dry concrete on both sides of the drift. I stared at it. Hmm.
“I think I just might be able to hit that snowdrift real fast, bust through it and then turn around and drive back out the same way” I boasted to Scott. In one of his rare moments of poor judgment, he agreed. “You think so? Ok. Sure!”
I gunned the car up to 35 miles per hour and slammed into the big drift. The whole world turned white. When the flakes settled—we made it! Now, we had the building at our back, and about 50’ of dry concrete between us and the drift. Easy peasy.
However, I had failed to take into account the uphill grade leading out of the loading dock area and the layer of snow that now blanketed the concrete as a result of the snow explosion when we burst through the drift the first time. We back up as far as possible and slammed into the drift trying to bust our way out. The car made it halfway through and stopped, perched precariously on a large bed of snow. All four tires were about six inches off the ground. I hate that. We got out in the freezing cold. No gloves, no shovel, just red faces and blue fingers. We found an old pallet on the loading dock and I busted it up and we used the pallet slats as shovels, taking turns ‘shoveling’ and warming ourselves up in the car. We finally got the car out. And we never did that again, neither. At least not without gloves.
The Exhausting Exhaust
The dual exhaust that we sawed off worked well enough, except for two bad habits. Sometimes when I drove over a bump in the road it would rattle and bang against the floor of the car. You have to expect that in a Beater Car. But the worst habit—indeed an imposing tower of weirdness—was when I made a sharp left turn, the left exhaust pipe would pivot on the manifold bracket and swing outside the car. Sometimes it would point sideways away from the car under the driver’s door (one of the few remaining doors that worked). I got real good at opening the car door and kicking the whole exhaust pipe back under the car, where it belonged. Sometimes it took a couple kicks, too.
Motor Mount Madness
Unfortunately, a motor mount broke on the 390 (no idea why). Under full power, the torque of the engine would raise it up off of the frame and bind the throttle linkage wide open. Rather than replace the broken motor mount, we used the opportunity to develop our reflexes and coping skills. When the engine would stick wide open (fairly common) I would casually reach over and turn the key off, and the engine would just lay back down on the frame. No big deal for a Beater Car.
Driveshaft Dismay
One time when we were on the Falknor Road hill, I attempted a neutral drop (for research purposes mind you). I wanted to see if the new rear end could handle it. To my delight, it handled it just fine. To my dismay, the driveshaft U-joints handled it poorly, and the driveshaft fell out on the road. I hate that sort of thing. We got a ride home from Owen and brought my dad’s brown car back to tow the Beater Car home. If I would have been on my toes, I would have asked Scott to take the blame for dropping the driveshaft out on the road. But I failed to do so, and my dad just shook his head as I mumbled about the driveshaft laying the road. He did let us use his car. Scott still owes me one!
Going Around in Circles
I mentioned that the Beater Car had a hand brake. A polio victim, my dad needed a hand brake to stop the car, as his legs didn’t have enough strength in them. One day Scott and I were turning left in a big intersection in Troy, Ohio. Unfortunately, the hand brake chose this moment to get caught in the steering wheel. The Beater Car, with its steering wheel locked in place from the handbrake could only turn left. We went round and round at least twice in that intersection before we got the handbrake disengaged from the steering wheel. Beater Cars are like that.
Boxes of Clothes and The State Patrol
My dad, crippled by polio, made it his ministry to gather up used clothes from the local thrift store (Penny Wise) and distribute them to poor people in our county and the city of Dayton. I grudgingly helped him picked up the clothes and put them in the station wagon numerous times, being careful to watch for classmates as I was loading the used clothing in the Beater Car. One time I saw Sandi and Kelli coming down the sidewalk while I was carrying used clothes out to the Beater Car. “These aren’t for us” I blurted out. “They are for poor people.”
“Right” said Sandi, glancing at the Beater Car. I was embarrassed. I think the car was too.
It seemed like my tires were always going flat on the Beater Car, especially rear tires. I think there must have been a bad batch of tires in our area. One time, Scott and I were driving north on I-75 and yet another flat occurred (on the rear of the car of course). We pulled over to the side of the highway, and began the task of dragging the spare tire and jack out of the rear of the car. Oh no! The rear of the car was loaded with boxes of old used clothes for poor people. Rats. We moved about 12 boxes of clothes out on the shoulder of the highway and dug out the spare tire. It was flat too. I hate that.
With nothing else to do, we carefully drove the car on the rim to the next exit in Tipp City (the wheel rim leaving a twin trail of gouges in the asphalt behind us. I left the boxes of clothes sitting along the highway (there might be some poor travelers that need some used clothing, I reasoned). There was a Shell station at this exit and the mechanic found a tire that fit and sold it to me for my last $20. The rim was almost trashed, but it worked.
Just as we backed the Beater Car out of the garage, an Ohio State Highway Patrol officer pulled in beside me and got out. “Ehm…hello sir” I said.
“Are those your boxes sitting back there on the highway”? He asked, in a way that reminded me of Big Al.
“Yessir we had a flat and we had to remove the boxes to get to the jack and we found that our spare tire was flat and then we decided to limp on up here for service and fortunately we got a tire that works now and...”
“You will go get those boxes, now right?” he said—in a tone that implied that I had no choice in the matter.
“Yes sir, I certainly will!”
“You better.”
“Thank you sir” we dashed off. We got those boxes too.
Uncle Grisso
One time I took the Beater Car down to West Milton to be with my friend, Danny. While I was there, the Beater Car developed a transmission problem (must have been a cheap transmission, like those tires). Danny said he could tow it home with their big tractor. We found one chain and we hooked it up and started the 12 mile journey to my home. Everything went well until we had to turn left on Rangeline Rd. Due to the short chain, the corner of the Beater Car rubbed against the large tractor tire and climbed up the large lugs of the tire until the front end was almost four feet off the ground. We were pinned there, like a red and pale blue jackknifed semi. We walked around the mess trying to figure out how to get them untangled, when a car pulled up. It was Danny’s gung ho Uncle Grisso! Uncle Grisso spent a good four minutes laughing at us and then he pushed on the Beater Car, making the car and the tractor sway back and forth in the twilight. He eventually left, after calling into question a certain portion of our anatomy. Relieved to be alone, we eventually got the car and tractor untangled and dropped the Beater Car off behind the corn crib of my home place. I decided I needed a better car.
Conclusion
When I was 17, I sold the Beater Car to a junkyard for $40. Since then, I have owned Camaros, Datsun 280Z’s, a Mercedes 300, an Acura Legend, a Cadillac and a host of other cars. Though much nicer cars, none of them have provided me with the mystique and sheer joy of the humble Beater Car.
I still miss it from time to time. Anybody know where I can find a 1967 Country Sedan Beater Car with mashed in right doors? I am willing to pay up to one hundred dollars. Maybe Scott could chip in. After all, he owes me one…
Looking back now, that old Beater Car taught me more than I realized at the time. In its own dented, noisy, unreliable way, it showed me that God can use even the most beat-up things—and people—to create memories, friendships, and stories worth telling. I was a lot like that car back then: full of bad ideas, held together with baling wire and prayer, and still somehow loved by a patient Father who let me learn the hard way.
Some days I still feel like that sixteen-year-old kid behind the wheel… but the Lord travels with me now, and that makes all the difference. We will get to that distant city, in His good time.
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“Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom” (Luke 12:32).