Restoration

 I own a 1950 Plymouth Special Deluxe.  People are always asking, “What is it and what year is it?”  It is a beautiful automobile.  Another question asked is, “Can I take some pictures of it?”  Usually the photographers are women.  Young women, most often Hispanic, want their picture taken with it.  I tell them go ahead.  I do worry about their boyfriends.

Lots of men my age salivate and drool and have to see under the hood.  Young hot rodder give a thumb’s up, blink their headlights, or try to buy it.  I tell them it is not for sale then they offer a ridiculous low price.  I usually them that their will buy them a look or the offer might get you the wheels.  Old timers say, “You got a lot of money tied up in the car.”  Some will ask where I found it and bought it. 

As of this article, I have been driving the Plymouth over sixty years.  That’s right.  I started driving it when I was twelve.  Mama taught me to drive it.  Back then it had a flathead six-cylinder engine, a three on the tree shifter, and a clutch.  I can still hear mama fussing and sometimes cussing me when releasing the clutch and the Plymouth hopping and jumping.  

Trying to shift from first gear to second was even more exciting.  I kept trying to shift it up and going into reverse.  The grinding sound was loud, but momma was louder.  I knew how to shift our Farmall Cub tractor.  It was a stick shift on the left with the gears marked and moved a whole lot slower.  I eventually got the hang of and started driving it. 

The Plymouth has been in the family since 1957.  Mamma’s brother worked was a body shop in Brent, Alabama.  I never knew what Uncle Gerald did in repairing it.  I never found any evidence of a collision.  He sold to his dad, my Grandpaw Chapman.  It was baby blue, two-door sedan.  My fondest memories are Grandpaw driving the Plymouth to our house on Saturday mornings brings us groceries because dad was out of work, which meant out money and out of food.  The Plymouth was quiet and sounded like a Singer sewing machine running.

Grandpaw became disabled due to his age and could not drive anymore, and daddy bought the Plymouth from him.  Daddy drove it to work each day for a few years.  The Plymouth had approximately six-eight thousand miles on it when a rod started knocking in the flathead.   Daddy asked, “Do you want a car?”  Boy did I.  Hot Rod magazines tantalized and owning a car was dreams come true for this fourteen old.  You read that right, 14.

Plymouth behind me

We had used the Plymouth for everything one would use a farm pickup to do.  We hauled firewood in the trunk.  Pulled farm equipment and pulled logs using chains connected to the bumpers.  We used the bumpers push and pull a wide variety of stuff.  There were bent, gouged, and scraped.

I started driving the Plymouth to school, to the store, and to church.  I bussed football players home, drove girlfriends' home, and when I got a driver’s license, I drove it to work at Hiwassee Land Company for two summers.  The first summer I earned enough to paint the Plymouth crystal blue on honor of Tommy James’ song “Crystal Blue Persuasion.” I drove it to the prom with plastic over the passenger window.   The second summer I had rolled and tucked interior installed.

During the years between age fourteen and eighteen, I replaced the flathead with one from a 1953 Plymouth Coronet.  I replaced the transmission and rear end, never bought new tires.  I never had the front end aligned.  I bought old junk Plymouths for ten to twenty dollars and used the good tires from them or picked up good ones in trash dumps.

When I graduated and later married, I drove it to work.  I drag raced it when challenged.  The brakes were bad, and it would not start when hot.  We always had to push it a few a few feet, jump inside, push the clutch, shift in first gear, and pop the clutch.  When it rained, was foggy, or a rat peed on the distributor it would not start.  My hot rod dream was to build it up from the ground up. 

Back in July 2012 our house in Jemison, Alabama burned.  I was Director of Missions in Linden two hours away.  Angela, my daughter, had the fire department pull the Plymouth out of basement storage and away from the house before it completely burned.  That’s when I carried the Plymouth to Linden and started six years of restoration.

Because the Plymouth was so unfaithful, I had named her Jezebel.  After the fire and restoration, I named her Phenix in honor of the mythical bird that rose from the ashes.  Phenix has a 5.7 Dodge hemi engine and automatic transmission, fat boy front end, 9” Mustang rear end, four-wheel disc brakes, high end vinyl bucket seats, power tinted windows, chrome mag wheels and tires, and painted Porsche Meteor Grey.

A family heirloom

The Phenix is a conversational starter.  It is an opportunity to tell of God’s transformational power.  It is a display of how something can change when loved and given a new start.  That’s what God does with us.

Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new (I Corinthians 5:17 KJV)

Now for a little Bible humor:

What automobile does God drive?

Plymouth Fury - Behold, I will gather them out of all countries, whither I have driven them in mine anger, and in my fury (Jeremiah 32:37 KJV)

What was the official car of the early Christians?

Honda Accord - And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all in one accord in one place (Acts 2:1 KJV)

From Jezebel to Phoenix

I cannot remember when I first fell in love with driving.  It was not love at first drive.  Momma taught me to drive in a 1950 Plymouth Deluxe.  It was a flathead six cylinder with three-speed on the column manual transmission.  I can still remember hopping out of the drive on to the highway.  I had had practice driving our Farmall Cub in the field and it was much easier than the Plymouth.  For instance, when changing gears on the tractor it stopped and the cutch was different, as was the shift.  The Plymouth was still moving and going from first to second on the column, known as “three on a tree,” took more coordination than the tractor.  Pushing the clutch, shifting up, and releasing were complicated for a twelve-year-old.  Yes, I was twelve and momma was hollering because I was trying to go into reverse rather than in second.  I was puzzled how reverse and second were in the same place.  There were not on the tractor.

Dad gave me the old Plymouth when I was fourteen.  He had junked it as his work car.  He said that if I wanted a car, I could fix up the Plymouth.  I did.  I bought several old junk Plymouths, back when for five to ten dollars, for spare parts including engines, transmissions, mirrors, door handles, rims, and tires.  Most of the time people gave away the cars to get them out of their yards.  I remember visiting trash piles in hope of recovering a good used fifteen-inch tire.  Way things are inflating, no pun intended, I may have return to the garbage dumps to find tires.

I spent the whole summer working to earn money to get a new paint job on the Plymouth.  By this time, I had named her Jezebel, because she was so unfaithful and ornery.  I went to the parts store, that’s what we call ‘em up home, and bought the paint and a neighbor, who was learning to paint cars, did the body and fender repair and painted it crystal blue in honor of Tommy James and the Shondells’ hit song Crystal Blue Persuasion.

The next summer I spent my earnings from picking and loading watermelons, cantaloupes, and hauling and throwing hay for blue rolled and pleated interior and carpet.  I had me a hot rod.  It would run eighty miles an hour downhill.  You can only imagine how rough and safe a ride I had with tires from junkers that were not balanced.  I know that the tubes had multiple patches, which threw the tires more out of balance.

I started driving the Plymouth to football practice before I had a driver’s license.  It was a step better than all the walking, which I had done from the seventh grade until I started driving.  The sheriff told daddy that it was okay, but be very careful.  After I got my license, I drove carelessly.  To this day, my brother-in-law tells folks that God must have had a plan for me later in life because there is no way that I should have lived with all the reckless driving I did.

I guess that is why I am writing this article.  I did a lot of reckless driving and lived to tell it.  I was returning to Linden from Demopolis on US Highway 43.  I was running the speed limit with the cruise control, which undoubtedly was too slow for folks headed south.  Two cars behind me this lady thinks she is at Talladega Raceway because she is drafting the car behind me and makes her move to pass.  I never saw the checkered flag.  I did see the yellow line, which means no passing, it quickly becomes two yellow lines as she gets beside me, and there is a car headed north and directly toward her.  I have to slow for her to return to the proper lane.

The car behind me says if she can, I can.  He starts around me on a hill, two yellow lines, and a truck flying to Demopolis directly in his path.  Once again, I slow to prevent a wreck.  They had better be glad I was not in my hot rod Plymouth.  I would have been very slow for them.

I do not think people realize the risk they are taking behind the wheel.  I have been hit by a teenage boy in flying Trans Am, passing three cars, with two yellow lines on the road, and on a hill.  I am glad my brother-in-law was a prophet.  Had God been through with me I would have been killed.  I have some ailments today because of that wreck thirty-two years ago.  It is unsettling when people pass when there is no room for passing.  Many lives have been altered and many killed by idiotic drivers who drive recklessly.  All of us need to slow down, drive safely, and be considerate.

When I was hot rodding, folks would quote the Bible and call me Jehu.  I know some that called me a Yahoo.  Both would be true.  I saw two Yahoos on Hwy 43.

. . . And the driving is like the driving of Jehu the son of Nimshi; for he driveth furiously (II Kings 9:20b KJV).

Tongue and cheek humor: I always felt that I was doing good owning Hondas, the choice of Jesus and the early disciples and that God drove a Plymouth Fury and owned a Pontiac Tempest and Geo Storm.  See what you think.  Check out John 12:49, Acts 2:1, Jeremiah 32:37, Ezekiel 13:13, and Psalm 83:15 in the King James Version.

 

In 2012, I started rebuilding the 1950 Plymouth.  My daughter had the volunteer fire department pull the Plymouth from the basement of our burning home before the remains of the house fell on it.

The old Plymouth now has a dependable 5.7 Hemi, a Mustang rear end, automatic transmission, four-wheel disc brakes, power windows, air-condition, synthetic leather bucket seats, Porsche Meteor Grey paint, modern stereo system, and chrome rims with store bought tires.  Since her transformation from the fire Jezebel is now named Phoenix.