THE VALUE OF THE OLD CAR HOBBY

In late 1962 I turned 16 and was already on my eighth contemporary car rebuild. It was also the year I started a subscription to Hemmings Motor News, which fueled my antique car interests, particularly with a desire to find and restore a Ford Model A. After weeks of unsuccessfully searching the length of Long Island—where I lived at the time—I was heading home and something behind a garage caught my eye. It was a 1931 Model A woody wagon. All the wood was intact but also full of dry rot. The metal bodywork was dented but rust-free and easily restorable. So, too, was the stainless hardware, nearly all of which was with the Ford. The mechanical systems were in crates. I talked to the owner, who told me he purchased the car and had planned to convert it into a beach buggy to use on Fire Island. Fortunately, he was in the mood to sell, so we negotiated a price of $70, or $565 in today’s money.

One of my former junior high school teachers was an old Ford enthusiast, so I called him to see if he might be interested in going in on the car’s restoration as a joint venture. I wanted his guidance and experience in rebuilding the Model A. He was interested, so we set out in his mint 1948 Cadillac to haul the woody wagon home. My plan was to borrow my parents’ garage and use most of my college savings to restore the Ford. I had about 24 months to make good on the plan, including selling the car when it was done.

The project was an incredible experience that allowed me to develop acquaintances with car hobbyists across the country and in South America. Our search for parts through Hemmings evolved into a wide network of Model A enthusiasts who helped guide our restoration. My project partner led the work in rebuilding the drivetrain, and I took on the responsibility of managing the metal and woodwork, painting, getting the plating and upholstery done, and doing the finish work and assembly. We had some help, though. A friend who was a cabinetmaker created the difficult curved tongue-and-groove wood pieces. An incredibly skilled 80-year-old German bodyman straightened out deep fender dents with a hammer and dolly, and the fender beads were laser straight when he was finished. Not an ounce of lead or plastic was used anywhere.

One of the people who became part of my Model A network was an interesting fellow named Fred Page. Fred ran a business in Haverhill, New Hampshire, called Page’s Model A. I had known about Fred as a young kid because his garage was 30 miles from my grandparents’ house in Franconia. He began grabbing up old Ford cars and parts in the late 1940s and stored them in barns around the countryside. His hobby provided a livelihood for several young men in the area over the years. One of them was Herb Griffin, who started his career in the prewar Ford restoration business at Page’s.

Restoring a Model A woody in 1964 was inefficient, simply because not too many of them had been restored correctly. I spent countless hours locating original door handles that were unique to wagons, the correct wood used by the original builders, the middle and back seat parts that were missing, and numerous rubber and metal items unique to the woody and to the model year. Because of that, I learned that nearly every problem can be solved with time and persistence. What you don’t know you can learn, and you can learn it from people who may not have anything else in common with you except an interest in the task at hand. I also learned something about patience, which is not an easy lesson when you are 17.

Time, patience, and attention to detail were instrumental in correctly restoring the Ford Model A, including the sourcing of Ford-correct wood.Image courtesy of Rick MacCornack

With long hours on weeknights and weekends—while trying to keep things afloat at school and with a girlfriend in the mix—the whole project finally came together in late July 1965. My sister was getting married in August, so it was natural for the Model A to be used to drive the newlyweds away after the reception. It was a perfect moment that provided a unique memory for everyone.

That same month, the telephone rang just before midnight. I was surprised when the caller turned out to be Fred Page’s sidekick, Woody, who was down on Long Island scouring the countryside for Model A parts. He had gotten wind of the tons of parts I had gathered while restoring the wagon. Woody was intent on coming over to check out the stash early the next morning, and he showed up in a very tired 1940’s dually stake body that was already piled high with parts. Old-time New Hampshire folks are masters of the poker face, and they can be shrewd bargainers.

I took him out to the shed and after watching him ponder the parts with no expression, I admitted that I also had a woody wagon in the garage that he might like to see. When I opened the garage door, I heard a barely audible “Jeezum crow!” I could feel his suppressed excitement. Then he said flatly, “I need to talk to my boss, and I’ll get back to you on the parts.”

He took off for New Hampshire and evidently drove straight through to Haverhill—12 hours in those days in a truck like his. About 11:30 that night I got another call, this time from Fred Page. I was nervous, knowing that Fred was a seasoned, tough negotiator. For him, this was just another business deal. The market for a well-restored woody in 1965 was still soft, so Fred was in a good negotiating position. I also knew that he was aware I was going to college in a few days and probably assumed my parents didn’t want the Ford lingering. We ended up with a deal after many long, uncomfortable silences. He got five tons of parts thrown in with my Model A, and my partner and I made an acceptable profit. It took Woody and another guy half a day to load everything.

Image courtesy of Rick MacCornack

Two years later I worked at Page’s Model A during the summer. For three months I learned a lot about listening, educating customers, and the fundamentals of running a business, in addition to just about everything prewar Ford. I worked seven days a week and we started each day with Fred telling us stories over donuts and coffee about his favorite customers, many from New York. One was a fellow named Pepper, a name memorable enough that it stuck in my head.

I again worked for Fred during the summer of 1969, helping to build a customer base at the Haverhill garage before I went to teach school. My woody had finally sold—at a handsome price—to a fellow who lived outside Chicago.

During the 1970s I was in graduate school in New York City, supporting myself with odd jobs and research assistantships. Although my teenage obsession now seemed like another lifetime, my past kept creeping into my new life without effort. I became good friends with an older woman who took some of the same classes I did. She was married to a guy named Pepper. One day I was invited over to their house and the conversation got around to some of Pepper’s interests outside his work as a corporate attorney. The name Fred Page came up, the dots quickly snapped into line, and a story unfolded.

It was through this friendship that I began knitting together the connections between my teenage obsession and my emerging adult life. It slowly dawned on me that the old car hobby had been a vehicle for defining who I was and how I would develop, no matter what I ended up doing. I had learned to appreciate the hard work it took to run a successful business, as well as project management. I also learned that gearheads from all over the world with tremendously varied abilities, interests, beliefs, and values could easily connect through their interest in preserving functional, industrial art—even improving on it through experimentation and learning. Also, the value of “community” fostered by common interests, and the importance of passion, hard work, persistence, learning from mistakes, solving hard problems, and believing in the ability to achieve a goal without prior evidence of success. These were the important life lessons I was slow to realize earlier. Looking back, I am indebted to the dozens of old car enthusiasts who took an interest in our project and encouraged me to push for things I thought might be unattainable.

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