My ticket to independence cost all of $155 back in the 1960s
Harrell
This is 1966 Ford Mustang columnist Michael Reno Harrell wanted to buy as a teenager. He didn’t.
I needed a car. June 7 was coming and I was going to turn 16. So, it only made sense that I needed a car. It was a given, kind of like a law of nature.
Like when you ordered tea, it simply always came with sugar and ice. I needed a car in order to function as a normal 16 year-old-person.
So, the first day of summer vacation I informed my dad that I was coming of age and would be needing wheels, so perhaps he and I could pay a visit to Bob Bales Ford.
The previous April the Ford Motor Company had introduced a phenomenon called the Mustang. There was a billboard on Cumberland Avenue announcing that the base model was available at only $2,368.
Which, in today’s market, would be the equivalent of just south of $25,500.00. A steal.
Dad forked a piece of pot roast, grinned and nodded once. I knew that gesture. What it implied was, “Yea, right.”
Sarcasm was one of my father’s favorite fallbacks. It took a few minutes for me to formulate my retort. All I could come up with was, “Well, everybody I know is getting a car.”
Again the grin and the acerbic nod. Then, “Have any idea how much just the insurance would run a 16-year-old driver on a new $2,700.00 car?”
“$2,700? It’s $2,368!”
“Ever bought a new car?”
“Well, no.”
Dad took a sip of ice water and said, “You think the government doesn’t collect sales tax? Ever heard of destination fees, undercoating or dealer prep? What about options which might have been added at the factory, things like a glovebox light or whitewall tires?”
Dad reached for his pen and the little spiral-bound notebook that lived in his shirt pocket and began to figure.
“Let’s see, that’s $2,700 for three years at 8% interest. That comes to a payment of $81.00 each month. Interest would amount to $216.00 for a total cost of $2,916.”
Which in today’s money would be $31,300.00. Total interest would be $2320.00.
I had worked every summer since my 13th birthday for my father for 50 cents an hour and had managed to squirrel away $119.26 in the Hamilton National Bank. I clandestinely borrowed $50 from my mother and went looking for a ride.
I found a primered 1950 Ford business coupe with new seat covers hiding very saggy springs. But it had a J.C. Whitney three-speed floor shifter giving it a very cool vibe.
The guy who changed tires and washed cars at Morningside Shell was asking $155 for this fine specimen of conveyance. I took her for a test ride and first gear made a very disturbing sound until I could get her into second.
Being a very shrewd trader I bought it for exactly the asking price. I paid $10.58 for the taxes, tag and title. Leaving me $8.68 to my name. Gas was 28 cents and I bought five gallons and a quart of 30-weight motor oil for a total of $1.79.
I now had $5.11 in my pocket. But I had a car! Mostly.
I immediately took my new ride over to show it to my buddy, Donnie Britton. It turned out that Donnie wasn’t home but his older brother David was. I parked on the street in front of the house.
There was a bit of a grade and as I opened my door to get out the old Ford gave a bit of a wheeze followed by a kind of a cough and advanced about three inches forward.
Three seconds later that same process repeated. Then again. I jumped back into the driver’s seat and turned the wheel nudging the right front tire against the curb. I pulled on the emergency break handle and it came off in my hand.
I tossed it into the back floorboard and got out. David was working on his ’41 Ford coupe. It had a 327 Chevy engine with a dual pumper Holley carburetor, a four speed Muncie transmission and a black paint job that appeared to be two feet deep. He looked over at my ride and slowly shook his head.
He informed me that my new ride needed a ring job.
I timidly mentioned the fact that my first gear was making a reoccurring clunking sound. To which he replied, “No problem. Pull her into the drive and we’ll drop the tranny.”
“Drop what?”
“You need to pull the transmission apart and replace the first gear cluster.” I suddenly became aware that I probably knew more about gallbladder surgery than I did about auto mechanics.
Dead battery.
David explained how to bump her off. I did and backed her into the gravel drive. Within 20 minutes the old Ford was up on blocks and I was under her loosening the u-joint on the drive shaft and removing the transmission linkage.
Then per instructions I removed the four transmission bolts and eased that old three speed onto my chest, then off onto the gravel and David rolled it out from under the car.
We carried it to his basement and sat it on his workbench. Soon the cover was off and we had the first /reverse gear cluster out and were off to the Ford dealer where David loaned me what money I needed to buy the replacement part.
Later I managed to drop half the roller bearings onto the dirt floor of the basement, but we wiped them off, smeared some grease on them and replaced the cover. Within 30 minutes I was driving her home.
The battery was terminal. But I learned to always park on an incline with a brick under a tire, then bump her off.
Thereafter I could never date a girl who lived at the bottom of a hill. I’ve engaged in a lot of mechanical projects over the years but there has never been one more satisfying or as cheap as that first one.
Michael Reno Harrell is an award-winning songwriter, a published author, a nationally known storyteller, and a visual artist. He writes a monthly column for The Paper. See more of his work and performance schedule at his website,michaelreno.com, or his YouTube channel, @MichaelRenoharrell.
