By Alan Wagoner

In 1947, my high school chum, Donald Scott, and I decided to go into partnership and buy a car for our activities which consisted of chauffeuring girls around Malta and McConnelsville.

After pooling our accumulated wealth and checking out various dealerships, we decided to purchase a pre-owned, post-war car. You know, one that would fit our meager budget. We settled on a Ford and went out to Chesterhill to purchase it with two checks: one from the First National and the other from the Citizens Bank.

Not having the advantage of CarFax at the time, we had to rely on what the salesman told us about the condition of the car. He claimed to have driven it to Columbus and back, to have installed four new tires and gotten great gas mileage from kerosene. We were convinced that we were getting a great deal. But all was not as it seemed.

On the drive back to McConnelsville we noticed that the car ran quite well on flat ground and when going downhill, but when going uphill it would labor and overheat. We finally stopped and opened the hood to see what the trouble might be. We were astounded to find that we had bought a car without a water pump! This was the first of many surprises our post-war car would give us over the next few weeks.

As you might guess, as soon as we could we stopped in at one of our local suppliers to pick up a water pump. The owner of the establishment, Junky Wilson, was not in, but his trusted parts man, Nate McDaniels, was and he informed us that he didn’t have a water pump in stock. As we were about to leave, we noticed what looked to us like our water pump propping open the front door! We bought it for the princely sum of one dollar.

The purchase of the “new” used pump called for a longer fan and water pump belt which took us to our local shoe repair shop for the proper material. Most of the other parts we needed, like a spare tire and tube, we bought at our local Western Auto Store on the square next to the Opera House. We soon discovered that the brake, reverse, and clutch lining had to be replaced quite frequently if we were not careful how we applied them.

Over the coming weeks we discovered numerous other small problems that needed our attention. One such problem was that we had to make a part for the carburetor. For this project we needed solid brass. Worley Gatewood, who lived on the corner near the Sunoco Service station on Main Street, helped us with this one, as he was a retired master machinist.

Our dull black car also needed a paint job and we gave it new life with snazzy red paint and bright yellow wheels. We were almost done with our makeover, except for one final touch.

Our salesman emphasized that with a simple twist of the wrist and arm, the vehicle could be easily started with the crank located at the front of the vehicle. What he did not add was that you risked a broken arm each time you cranked it. Fortunately, he mentioned that this was the first Ford to be equipped for the installation of a self starter…if we could find one.

Needless to say, with our network of informants, we soon located one. It was found on an old car, rusty and abandoned, sinking up to its axles in dirt in a field east of town. Soon a plan was hatched to obtain the object of our desire.

With two other young men plus the recruitment of our old Boy Scout leader, Jimmy Whitehouse (who participated under duress, fearing that he could be jailed forever for participating in this fling with under age young men!), we got to work.

The farmhouse where the apparent owner of the abandoned car lived was about a quarter mile away. Our plan was simple: two of us would scramble over the fence with a five-cell flashlight, two adjustable wrenches, screw drivers and a garden hand scoop. The other two young men were lookouts, placed about ten feet on either side of our get-away car, with our driver, Jimmy, shivering by himself behind the wheel. It took only two bolts and a nut and we were home free!

Only later did we learn that, not only did the owner not care that we had ransacked his old car for a starter, but that he would have called it a good job if we had carted the whole car away! I think the only causality was poor Jimmy. His nerves never were the same!

With the ill-begotten starter, we finally had the post-war car we dreamed of. That is, a post World War I, 1919 Model T three door touring car!







Postscript
Bernard Triplet, the car salesman who sold us our post war car, is still living in Chesterhill on the investment of those two checks of thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents each. He and his wife just celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary.