When I turned sixteen my dad bought what I considered to be my car although it was bought for the whole family to share. Aside from my dad, my older sister Cindy was the only licensed driver in the family. The car was a three speed transmission with overdrive...on the floor. My sister ruined two really good clutches trying to learn how to drive it. When my dad found out she had been driving around town in third gear he banned her from driving it. She wasn't disappointed. He did however, buy her a car of her own and it had an automatic tranny. It also had a 348cu in. engine with a 4 barrel carburetor. She couldn't afford to drive it much but at least the family second car was safe. Her's was a 1958 Chevy Impala painted kind of brown, almost orange....you know the color if you remember Chevy's from the 50's. I don't mind admitting I was a bit irritated that "my" car was a nearly worn out 1953 Studebaker Champion painted baby blue.....it had a straight six in it with a maximum speed of about 45mph. It also had 4 wheels on it but that is where the comparison ended. I digress....
This short story is about maintaining old cars. At the tender age of sixteen I had helped my dad rebuild the motor of an old Chevy pickup for my Grandpa, helped pull the clutch out of a Studebaker (see above), not once but twice, and helped rebuild the transmission of the same Studebaker. I had never done anything on my own. My Dad, who was a mechanical genius, had supervised everything I had done on a car. After the arrival of the '58 Chevy though he kind of lost interest in the Studebaker and told me to keep it running. I was tickled to be in total control of "my" own car. Daddy said Cindy was a girl and shouldn't be working on cars so he did all the repairs, all the washing, all the waxing....he was in love with that Chevy.
Stepping back a bit I have to say I saw the Studebaker sitting in the driveway for the first time when my parents drove Cindy and me home from a two week stay in Belton. We had gone down to help my aunt Dovie, who was slowly dying from cancer. I think Cindy helped my aunt and uncle quite a bit. I helped my cousin Donnie stay in trouble. I considered this a help though because we were never causing trouble at home. Donnie had a car and we used it...a lot. Anyway, when we turned the corner into our neighborhood and I saw that Studebaker sitting in the driveway, I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe I had a car, even if it was a dull gray odd looking thing...definitely not a Chevy but by golly it was a car!
The next morning my dad went back to work and I got busy washing and waxing that car. I realized as I applied the wax that the color wasn't gray. It was light blue with an ivory colored top. It was beautiful! I bet I put four coats of wax on that Studebaker that day. My little brother Glenn helped and by the end of the day that car was glistening. My dad came home from work and was surprised the old gray car he bought wasn't gray at all. He was almost as happy as Glenn and I.
We tinkered, we tuned up, we washed and waxed some more until we felt an ownership of the Studebaker. We didn't know at the time the Studebaker would still be a part of the family today. My brother has it now at his home. He still likes to work on old cars...I don't! It's been in our family for 55 years.
As I was the official caretaker and only driver of the Whoopy, as it was dubbed by my dad,it was my job to maintain it. I kept it clean and polished. I would even go out and wash it in February in the bitter cold if it needed washing. I kept it tuned up and repaired mechanically except for one thing. I didn't have a clue how to work on brakes. The first time it was up for inspection I proudly drove it up to Barbara's Texaco and got in line for the inspection. When I finally made it to the front of the line the brakes were smelling funny. Kind of a burnt smell. Oh well, go ahead and inspect this baby! The mechanic got in, fired it up, raced the engine a little then took off. When he came to the line where he needed to hit the brakes, the wheels screeched, the left front wheel completely froze up, and the car did a beautiful 180. Since the car was now facing me I was able to see what caused the metallic bounce, roll, bounce bounce, roll to a stop, and lie there sound the car emitted when it stopped. The headlight trim had come completely off the fender and rolled across the parking lot.
The wait for an inspection back then was long. The later in the year it got, the longer the line got. I think the cutoff date for an inspection was April 15, but I might be thinking of something else important that day. Whatever the cutoff was, I was getting the Studebaker inspected one week before the deadline. I asked the mechanic if he would go ahead and pass it. I promised to get the brakes fixed. For some reason he didn't seem to believe me so I picked up my headlight rim and drove on home....slowly.
When my dad got home he asked how the inspection had gone. I told him every gory detail. He said, "Well, you better get those brakes fixed before the end of the week or you'll be walking." I said, "I don't know how to do a brake job!" He told me I better learn quick. He was a real cutup that way. He told me to go down to Kragen's Auto Parts, tell them the make and model of the car, and ask for new brakes for the front. "You probably don't need to do anything to the back brakes." He then told me to "jack up the car's front end, and pull off one wheel. Do not try to work on both wheels at the same time!" he warned. I thought this was odd since I couldn't even work on one wheel, much less two at the same time... so I asked why? He patiently told me "BECAUSE I SAID SO! THAT'S WHY." At this point my mother interjected, "Now Leroy, he doesn't know how to do this. Don't yell at him." Sweet lady my Mom. He did finally tell me the secret of a successful brake job. He said, "When you pull off the wheel you're going to see hooks and springs, and lots of other crap that all goes together a certain way. If you will take off one piece at a time and lay all the parts down in order you will know how they go back." If you still can't remember you can pull the wheel from the other side and see how it goes together." Now, that made sense and I knew I would never have to ask that specific dumb question again.
The next morning, I jacked the front end of the car up, blocked it all securely and took off that first wheel. Well, that's how it should have worked. Unfortunately, the wheel was stuck because the brake shoes were stuck to the drum. (Remember burnt smell mentioned above?). I pulled and I tugged and I beat the drum with a hammer for two hours. I was frustrated so I walked away from it and ate some lunch. When I went back out I told myself it was just a car. It didn't have a brain and it wasn't fighting me for control of that left front wheel. It was just stuck. I hit that drum as hard as I could with my hammer. Then I gave it another tug. I felt some movement so I pulled really hard one more time. The wheel came off!! So did the brake shoes, the springs, the hooks, all the stuff I was supposed to remember how to put back. After I found all those little parts I started trying to put it all back together. I did not have a clue!! I had a slight moment of panic before I remembered that other wheel! I went around and removed the tire and outer wheel. I tenderly and lovingly held the drum in my hands and prayed everything would stay in place when I pulled that drum off. It slid off with no resistance. Prayer is a powerful thing. I now had a perfect example of how it was all supposed to go back together. I won't bore you with all the details of a brake job done before disc brakes were invented. Just suffice to say it took about 4 hours to put that first brake back together. I did the next wheel in about 45 minutes start to finish. I had walked through brake hell and survived.
I set the car back down on the ground and went in to change clothes. I was wearing brake dust from top to bottom and didn't want to stain my 13 year old upholstery. I then went back out, started up the Whoopy with pride that I was now an accomplished brake mechanic. I put the transmission in reverse and backed down the driveway to the street. When I was ready to stop and slip it into first I put my foot on the brake pad and rode it all the way to the floor. Instead of having bad brakes, I now had no brakes at all. I crept back up the driveway and parked it. I needed more help. It was hard to ask for but I had to. Daddy was pretty good about it though and promised to help me fix it on Saturday. It seems when you do a brake job, it's important to "bleed" the brakes. I did not know cars had blood but apparently so. After my dad showed (and helped) me bleed the brakes, the brake pad was solid. I was a happy guy. I drove back down to Barbara's to get it inspected. Two days working on the brakes and when I got to Barbara's the mechanic asked if I had done a brake job. I proudly said yes and he slapped a sticker on the windshield. He didn't even test it but he probably should have. The next few days the brakes didn't feel just right and on the next Saturday morning I pulled into the Foodway Grocery store where I worked. The store was at the top of a long hill. As I got close to where I wanted to park I touched the brakes. There was nothing there. I did not panic though. I scanned the parking lot for the oldest car I could see and ran into it. That stopped me.
To this day that old Studebaker still gives us trouble with the brakes. My dad went all through the system and found nothing. Glenn has done the same several times with no results. The old car is sitting in one of his garages now because he can't find out where the brake fluid keeps going. Maybe I should pray over it.
