Crunch...

...went my car today, a very final sound.

While driving this afternoon, slowed way down to turn right...

WHAM!

And my car, a VERY large 1969 Plymouth Fury III convertible, gets punted about 10 feet, accompanied by a horrendous noise. Then dies & rolls to a stop around the corner I was turning.

My glasses are gone, and since I'm blind as a bat without them, the first thing I have to do is find them. I had the top down, so God knows where they went. Pry myself out of the car and commence feeling around for them. Another driver stops and offers to help, he finally finds my glasses in the back seat. Now that I can see, here is what I find:

Neither the trunk nor the passenger side door will open, and it's pretty clear that the frame is tweaked. The hood opens, but with resistance and groans, although the engine looks OK. The top, which had been down, still closes but does not line up to latch properly, everything is shifted towards the passenger side. It still drives so I got it home, but it moans & groans and doesn't feel safe.

I think my car is toast. :(

The girl who hit me was moving at a pretty good clip. Her car suffered damage to it's right front and would not restart, so she had it towed. A cop was driving by so he stopped and took a report, the girl did not seem hurt at all. I was hurting but not enough to go to the hospital.

Tonight I've got mondo pain & pretty good bruising starting to develop all up & down my left side...and my neck hurts, naturally.

Luckily I've got a spare car, a '75 Pontiac I picked up to use while the Plymouth was undergoing restoration. I was just about ready to get the body work & paint done on the Plymouth, maybe next month. Now I've got to wait & see what the body shop says and see if the Plymouth is too broken to fix. And this after I sank all that money and time into getting the engine rebuilt and a bunch of other stuff fixed on it...

Bleah. And ouch.

Fresh Air, Yay!

Spent yesterday hunting and gathering rescreening supplies at Home Depot: A roll each of metal and fiberglass screen, two different sizes of spline (the rubber gasket stuff that holds screening into the frame) and a splining tool (a little roller tool to press the spline into the channel that holds it into the frame).

There was also a little VERY fancy car collector's club show set up in one corner of the parking lot, about a dozen perfect and polished 50's and early 60's cars on display with their elderly owners holding court in folding chairs next to them. The kid and I cruised through the display in my dirty, faded, top-down, loaded with old screens and hardware store bags, faithful daily driver 1969 Plymouth convertible and returned their horrified looks with cheeky grins.

She's rough looking but dependable, my girl Ruby. I felt like the proverbial bastard at a family reunion, it was great.

Scaring the straights was a bonus to the day, the real prize was sitting down and rescreening the kitchen window screen and the sliding glass door screen--that's where the heavier-duty metal screening went, the chickens sometimes jump and claw at the door when excited about a forthcoming goodie.

I can open my sliding glass door again without a stealthy feathery invasion, yay!

I've Got A New Car! I've Got A New Car!

Yay!!

Well...OK, not really. But hey, when the odometer zeros out on a 41 year old Plymouth and it's still a faithful daily driver, you should celebrate somehow.

The Plymouth Is Home!

After 63 days, the Plymouth is home again with a shiny rebuilt engine, among other things.

And the dash is back together.

Parts replaced/repaired:
Engine rebuilt, new hoses, oil, filter, plug wires, etc.
Thermostat
Engine mounts
Harmonic balancer
Heater core
Water pump
Carb rebuilt
Engine & engine compartment painted
Replaced dashboard voltage regulator
Replaced Fuel gauge
Repair/replace dash wiring
Replace turn signal cam
Install 4 speakers
Replace horn ring
Replace/repair temp control cable
Install new trunk, door locks
Replace ignition
Fix driver's side door (drifted closed & bit people)
Repaired/replaced tailpipe strap/bracket
Replaced pass side front grease cap

A few kinks though: the convertible top rear window glass hangs up on the rear seat speaker, so I need to either find one that fits the speaker well better, remove it or find a way to mount it on a diagonal so that it slips into the speaker well better. Also, the gas gauge, which worked at the shop when I picked up the car, had failed again by the time I got it home. The speedometer, which had been fine, is now twitching at speeds under about 25, and when I floored it in a long, empty stretch behind the local Target store, it only got up to about 20 MPH, when I KNOW I was going much faster than that. Sadly, the clock in the dash didn't revive, either. The new engine runs a bit rough and feels kinda strange, but that may be due to needing to be broken in. But all in all the car is vastly improved and I'm happy with it.

It's a bright spot in an otherwise really, REALLY shitty month.

The Engine Is Back From The Spa!

And it looks LOVELY!

A very pretty shiny piston!

The crank waits, still enrobed in cosmoline, for installation...

Because nothing is ever simple, other things besides the engine rebuild had to be done.
The work under the dash is proceeding, the wiring is nearly all done, the new ignition and locks are in, 2 of the 4 speakers are in, the turn indicator cam is installed. 

And I have to say, visiting your car mid-engine-rebuild and seeing it SO apart is a little like watching a family member have major surgery--disconcerting and disturbing, but you know it has to be done and ya just gotta trust.

Think this speaker is Blaukaput? :D

The engine compartment sports a fresh coat of black paint to protect it until waaaay down the road when the bodywork/paint stage is reached.

The Black Hole Of Calcutta!

The water pump, however...

...is officially toast. J. installed this thing about a year and a half ago. The engine was going through water like a mad thing, so we ended up topping off the radiator with plain water more often than we should have.

Use coolant, every time, kids!. The car is rounding the turn and coming into the home stretch...which is good, because I miss my car.

Grit Your Teeth, Here Goes

It has begun.  The engine rebuild.

From this:
*And please note tolerant but bemused husband giving me the fish eye over worrying and hyperventilating about my car going in for major surgery...

To this:

The Grand Canyon:

But wait--why stop THERE?! What about inside the car as well?

The dash looks too intact, let's FIX THAT!

AAGGGHHHH!!!

Well...that doesn't look so ba--


Oh.

I guess a burned wire on the clock would tend to interfere with it keeping time.

No, But Thanks For The Ego Boost, Anyway...

I drive a 1969 Plymouth Fury III convertible.

Not a muscle car, but a beach cruiser/professional gasoline swallower. The other day I was walking away from my car after I'd parked it at a local shopping strip mall, when some guy in an SUV stops next to me as he's passing.

"HEY! Want to sell your car?"

Now, I'm not exaggerating when I say I get this ALL THE TIME. People stop me to ask, shout it across streets and parking lots, pull up at red lights, knock on my front door, leave notes, etc. The longing look in their eyes is downright amusing and they practically drool. Even my mechanic wants it, and he told me that in his research of my car, it's estimated value is around $30,000. I already knew this, as I'd done my own research long ago...but it was nice to hear from an independent source!

So anyway, I politely decline the guys' offer, coupled with a smile and my standard response of, "Sorry, it's my baby." Most people recognize that there is no chance of a sale and accept it graciously enough.

Not this guy, he's determined.

He's also not pulling away, and I stand there somewhat awkwardly, waiting for him to pass by so I can continue into the store.

"Aw, come ON! Are you sure you don't want to sell it?" *cue longing look* "It's an awful nice car, I love those..." *wistful look* Oh dear, another Fury fan. I can sympathize, I know that illness. I again decline, with an understanding smile.

Undeterred, he desperately begins rummaging in his glove compartment. "No, wait! I'll...I'll TRADE YOU! I can give you TWO fully restored Corvairs! I did them myself, it's a hobby..." He waves a fistfull of photographs. At this point he's attracted the frowning attention of a police officer, who is getting into his cruiser parked nearby.

Oh God, the guy loves Furys AND is a rabid auto hobbiest. He's now holding forth the fanned-out photos and has a hungry, pleading look in his eye. This is getting a bit weird, and I'm not about to approach some strange guy's car close enough to inspect the photos. The cops' stare is getting harder by the moment.

I still say no, but nicely, and wish him goodbye and good luck on his Corvairs, then step back a pace or two...I'm going to go around the back of his car and into the store that way. The cop shuts the door to his cruiser and prepares to walk over to the guy, who now has two cars waiting behind him.

Finally, to everyone's relief, the guy accepts defeat and goes on about his business. But I have to say, that's the best offer I've had for my car yet!

Something Stupid...

..the ONLY kind of personal experiences I seem to have.

Today it was the car. I just had the transmission rebuilt on Ruby the Plymouth, and ever since I had gotten her back, I had noticed a slight--at first--hesitation on shifting into second gear (and then with that I-just-turned-on-the-afterburners kick), then she was lateshifting into third, at around 45 mph (normally around 35). Not a huge deal, but she hadn't been like that before. Call the mechanic, who says he may need to make an adjustment to the tranny, drive it for a bit and see. Today it's dramatically worse, she insisted on staying in first gear aaalllllll the way to N.'s elemetary school, which causes other drivers to look at you in weird ways. On the return trip home, she does get into third gear, but at 53 mph, thank you--way too late. Mechanic says OK, bring her in. I do so, and interestingly, the first thing he does is pop the hood (isn't the transmission housed elsewhere, somewhere darker and more greasy...?). Anyway, I start the car for him and pop out from behind the wheel just in time to see him take off the air cleaner housing, then make a face and step back a moment. I follow his eyes and see...

The large armature and spring that connects the carbuerator to the accelarator pedal dangling free!

Now, how in the HELL Ruby was even moving under her own power with that whateveritwas hanging there like that (don't know the technical name for that part, sorry), I don't know. To make matters worse, there was a good-sized bolt that went to a limiter on the carb lying on top of the valve covers, and the clip that held the armature and spring in placed has vanished. Once he reconnects this part (as I laugh, quite frankly) and fashions a new clip out of a metal chunk, the car runs like a freakin' top. Go figure.

All of this got me thinking--I rarely HAVE normal experiences with cars or other things such as injuries. This car previously had, in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, snapped a large spring in the carbuerator which caused the accelerator to stick in 'Oh Holy God FLOOR IT!' mode, which is quite thrilling when you are driving, thank you. Luckily J. was driving and manhandled it to the side of the road, engine roaring at full throttle all the while. He found a small hardware store and jury-rigged a replacement spring, which is still functioning to this day.

Then there was the Ford Mustang I used to own that one day, for no damned good reason (or so I thought at the time, it was actually planning ahead) decided that the welded piece of metal that holds the adjustable seat in place MUST BREAK, causing the drivers' seat to rocket back and forth like an E ticket ride at Disneyland at every minor movement. Driving was impossible, I actually had to have the thing towed home where a large C clamp was permanently installed, the piece that broke being a component of the frame (great design!). Six months later, when I went to lunch at work one day, I discovered, to my horror, that I couldn't get my seatbelt unfastened! The button refused to depress when pushed. The clasp/release button arrangement on the seat belt of this particular car (bucket seats) were down too low for me to see WHY the damned button wouldn't press.

Here's where the broken seat and C clamp thing comes back into the picture: since I am short, I drive with my car seat all the way forward so I can reach the pedals. The C clamp was holding the drivers' seat firmly in it's steely jaws...I couldn't move the seat back and so loosen the shoulder/lap belt combination to escape in that way! No cutting tools in the car, either. I would have gladly cut the damned belt in frustration, just for the pleasure of maiming the car.

I was well and truly trapped, and everyone else in the office was gone to lunch. I sat there for a moment, trying to figure out how in the hell I was going to ace my way out of THIS one without becoming an Amusing Office Story, even IF those heartless bastards would stop laughing long enough to free me.

I ended up driving over to my mechanic, who, lucky for me, just happened to be walking through his garage bays when I drove up. He waved as he walked by, then came over, puzzled by my frantic waving. Once I explained to him how I was trapped, he climbed into the passenger side of the car, peered into the clasp of the seatbelt, pulled a screwdriver out of his back pocket and used it to pop a penny out of the clasp! It had wedged itself perfectly behind the button so I couldn't press it. Couldn't have happened like that in a million years. I thanked him for saving my dignity but I saw he was grinning as I drove away. Oh well, I'd rather be an amusing story at his place than mine.

What about that personal injury thing? Glad you asked. One morning when I was in a hurry to get to work, I rewarmed my scrambled eggs in the microwave. Just for a few seconds, not too much.

OK, too much.

I took one bite and gave it half a chew (since you don't REALLY need to chew eggs) and swallowed. Fatal mistake. Ever swallowed lava?

I have.

It took it's sweet time going down, too. I drove to work later on anyway, but no amount of ibuprofen and sipping cold water all morning eased the considerable pain. I finally gave up and called my family doctor, who was nice enough to give me something for it. He DID laugh, which I did not begrudge him in the slightest.

When I was a kid it was stubbed toes, mostly because I insisted on going barefoot. Once I walked down the asphalt driveway to join my mom, who was leaning in a friends' car window, talking. Stub my right big toe. Retreat to the house for Big Fun with the methiolate bottle (read: battery acid for cuts) and band aids, then come back out to visit. Stub my OTHER big toe this time. Retreat in disgust back inside where it is carpeted and safe. My other thing was whacking my head on the large, crank-out windows of our house that the sidewalk leading the the garage and back yard passed under. I was juuuuust tall enough to crack my head on the damned things, but NOT tall enough to seem them in time. My dad even hung strands of red ribbon ("The color of the blood coming from your head!" He chirped.) from the corners of the windows, to no avail.

It's no different at work...need to open the cleaning supply closet? Well, then! The two brooms, dustmop and mop will have been leaning up against the door, waiting for ME to open it so they can leap out and suddenly pummel me on the head, in full view of three of my coworkers, while I flail about and try to defend myself/stuff the demonish things back in the closet in a Marx Brothersish frenzy.  That time I pulled a hat trick--THREE people laughing at me at once.

It's summer! Well then! Weather is nice, so I leave the front door of the apartment I was living in at the time open for a moment as I step outside to walk the three feet to the laundy room. When I come back with my laundry fresh from the dryer, I discover that an Alligator Lizard the size of Milwaukee is now standing in the middle of my living room, looking ill tempered and bitey (those damned things bite like nobody's business). I run to get a broom, but he resists all efforts to shoo him back out the front door and instead bites the broom briefly before dashing under the drapes. This, at least, gives me time to form Plan B, which involves my ironing board, my large foldable cutting mat I use for sewing and several cookie sheets pressed into service to form a Lizard Expressway. Surprisingly, between the Rube Goldberg contraption, my by-now determined broom (I've wasted enough time on Lizard Boy, already!) and a bored Alligator Lizard, it works and he is funneled back to the great outdoors, where he is no doubt looking for a small child to bite.

It's Christmas! Been tirelessly wrapping gifts, and down to the very last one? Well then! As I stick the last bit of ribbon in place and stick down the bow, I sigh, "That's it, I'm done!" The word 'done' has scarcely left my lips and is still hanging in the air when the ribbon on the package springs apart with an audible "thoing!, flinging the bow across the room for good measure. I sit there and stare at it bemusedly at J. doubles over, laughing, on the couch.

So now I reflect on how it's ALWAYS Something Stupid, and now that SONG by the same title is stuck in my head...at least it's a great rendition, performed by The Mavericks and Nancy Sinatra.

*sigh* I shudder to think what Fate has in store for me next...

This Weeks' Chapter In The Car Saga...

Ever had one of those days?

Here was yesterday for my husband J.:

Thankfully, other than being banged up and sore, he seems OK so far. The truck, on the other hand, seems totaled. We'll know more when they drag the poor thing off to the repair shop. This is what happened when some guy driving in the far right lane suddenly realizes that he's going to miss the left hand turn lane he needs, and cuts off people in order to get there, rather than continue on past it and turn around. I swear some people think the road only runs in one direction. So after this guy--who was, by the way, driving a transport service van full of handicapped kids--cut off my husband, my husband broadsided a woman in a car. He blacked out for a moment and came to with an airbag in his face. That's all he knows right now, but the woman unfortunately had to go to the hospital. We'll have to try and find out what her condition is, if she is in the hospital I would very much like to send her some flowers...being in there at all is bad, being in there for Thanksgiving is gonna suck.

The truck has a nice 'S' wave to it when you look at it head-on, but heck, at least the diamond-plate toolbox in the back still closes...of course, the capper is that the truck didn't have a dent or ding on it, and we'd just gotten it paid off. I had to prepare N. a bit before we got home from school yesterday, she was very sad that the truck was ruined (but very glad her daddy was OK) and seemed to gain a bit of appreciation for how much damage cars can do.

As I look across the dinner table this Thursday at my family safe and sound, I know what I'LL be thankful for.

It's Got...Potential...

...that's the polite way to phrase it. In blunter terms, it's The WhiteTrashmobile. I'm referring to my car. Here's my horror story for Halloween:

That's right, my own car. My preferred mode of transportation, personally chosen BY me in 1992 and driven daily (well, almost) since.

By way of explanation, I have to tell you that my car is a 1969 Plymouth Fury III convertible. No, NOT a muscle car. I laugh at muscle cars, muscle cars are far too easy to find parts for. It is nearly impossible to find parts for my 36 year old car. Leave it to dumb ol' me to fall in love with it. No, mine is what is called a 'C Body', which translates to 'Land Barge'. It sports a twenty four gallon gas tank, is nearly 9 feet wide and 20 feet long.

I get my money's worth at parking meters.

What I DO love about this car is that it handles like a dream, has a surprisingly tight turn radius, runs like a champ (and the faster you go, the smoother it runs) and I can SEE out of it. Since I am short this is a major plus. This car cried out to be named, as some cars do--her name is Ruby.

Besides, Ruby is just plain cool. When I first bought her in 1992, she had been freshly sold to a man who soon discovered that this was NOT the car to drive from his home in Fountain Valley to work in Long Beach, it was eating him alive in gas money. HE had bought it from the family of the original owner, who purchased it in North Hollywood in 1969. The first owner had obviously loved the car and taken very good care of it. So when it came to me it was in pretty darned good shape, and had a brand new convertible top.

Fast forward to 2005.....brace yourself, here's how she looks now:

 OK, so not too bad. You'd think. Until you see another picture from a different angle, which more clearly shows the 13 year old vinyl top:

Oh, dear. Tape? Can that really be TAPE?! Why yes, yes it is. Ohsoshiney, silvery, reflective tape. Wait. It gets worse. Let's move in closer, shall we?

 Ahhhh....yes....lovely, isn't it? Notice the hopelessly fogged over elcrapo plastic window, impervious even to Superman's vision. The loose bits of tape flutter nicely in the breeze, thank you. Hold on to your hats though, it gets even better:

 The crowning glory: A black trash bag. There is, at least, an amusing story to the trash bag.

It's patching a large, cat-sized hole.

Yup, one morning we went out and found this enormous hole, which at first I thought was someone either vandalising the car or one of the neigbors making a none-too-subtle point. Not true, as the muddy pawprints that vanished, skidding, into the opening professed. The no doubt mortified kitty was long gone. As I stood there looking at this, J. turned to me and said, "I would have paid cash money to see that happen..." So would I, so would I.

Next photo! Let's look inside, shall we? Cause as nice as this is on the OUTSIDE, the INSIDE must really scream 'class'...

That green bit in the middle is the sky! N. is now officially embarassed to be seen at school climbing into this car. She doesn't have it too bad though, because here's MY seat:

 Let us, mercifully, end this tour by viewing the passenger side, exterior:

Now if you saw this coming into your lane on the freeway, you'd move, right? Because obviously whoever drives this...this...thing can't possibly care if it takes any further damage.

I practically get the road to myself these days.

My mechanic, when I pulled into his garage area today to have this disgrace of a top replaced, actually laughed so loud I could hear him from inside the car--admittedly, not too tough with the overhead cat door--and yelled out, "Hey, you think you got enough tape on there?"

I told him I thought I had pretty much gotten my money's worth out of the thing.

So this evening Ruby sits, hogging TWO of his garage bays, while his guys remove the old top and fit the new one on, complete with GLASS back window. I'll post more pictures of the finished product in a few days, as long as nothing ELSE goes wrong. I just HAD to get pictures of Ruby at her worst, poor thing...

Next: Upholstery, carpet, and paint. Ruby, who was originally a pretty shade of Marine Blue, is trying to be blue AGAIN in many places, as the cheapo Earl Scheib special paint job wears away, which only serves to make her look like a giant, rolling bruise.

Onward!

The Circle Of Life...For Today, Anyway

My back patio is a disgrace--covered in dust and chicken poop it will have to be cleaned very soon. I mentally add it to the list.

Life...and I mean everyday, run-of-the-mill life...is such a fleeting, tiny slice of adventure.

My daughter home sick with a fever and cold symptoms and the accompanying grumpy 'tude, a visit from a very nice city official regarding the dirt on and the weeds under my '69 Plymouth--she said she felt stupid bugging people about it but it was a new thing she had to do. I promised to clean things up and everyone was happy. Later I listened to the guy on the next block rev his Top Fuel dragster at heart-stopping decibel levels for two solid hours while he worked on it, and wondered where the city's priorities were currently being housed. I had a few unladylike ideas. One of my sisters calls this kind of typical City thing a "Cranial-Rectal Inversion".

After that I went out to the back yard a few times to hang out some laundry. Each time I appeared the entire flock of chickens would come running up joyfully, hopefully...but no goodies. Did you know that chickens can look dissapointed? Then the siren call of Patio Cleaning was heard, so I took daughter out armed with sidewalk chalk and plastic dinosaurs plus the boombox and an ELO CD for me. She was no problem but the chickens and the tortoise kept getting entangled in my feet or would go spelunking in the Mysteries of the Open Garage and then would have to be rescued and/or hauled out. The tortoise felt a deep inner need to carefully....slowwwwlllyyy...investigate every tool I was using. She also came back later to play in the hose water when I hosed off the patio,resulting in my shoes getting soaked.

The patio needs revamping, right now it is an ugly and uninviting holding pen for things like the trash cans and the barbeque. I just have to figure out how to use what I have to improve it, and step one was cleaning. On to step two!

After cajoling Miss Grump into ingesting a tuna fish sandwich I accidentally stomp a HARD plastic Disney 'Stitch' toy which cheerfully tries to imbed itself in my bare foot. As I yowl with pain I try not to use any words I'd rather not have a parent-teacher meeting about later on. Where are my shoes? Out back on the porch drying, of course...

After this I load the kid into the car, preparing to descend on the cable company office and fling money at them. Bless my stars, just as I get into the car my husband arrives home and volunteers to go drop it off, the darling. He also mentions that he has a sore back and neck from tossing several hundred pounds of machinery on his back and running it up some stairs. *sigh*

Take confused 4 year old back into the house and spend the next 20 minutes explaining to her what just happened. Four year olds must have Union rules which state that each occurence, question or statement must be repeated 20 times. After that I give up.

Tonight I skip the 5 o'clock news in favor or sitting in the back yard savoring the cleanness of it, blowing bubbles for the kid and playing with the chickens.

One of whom has pooped, right in the middle of my nice, clean patio.