Thirty-Nine Ford

Thirty-Nine Ford, Forty-eight mill,

 zippin’ on up Milk River Hill.

The motor is fine, a two-thirty-nine,

  the paint doesn’t shine, but damnit it’s mine.

Cute little coupé, three on the tree,

 press the starter after the key.

Hydraulic brakes to get it to stop,

 worn out shocks to get it to hop.

Open the windshield with a pipe wrench,

 helps get rid of the cigarette stench.

Bicycle tube to hold the trunk down,

  all that I need to get me around.

Radio is a superheterodyne,

 dual antennas, rock out fine.

The tires are old, and rotten I’m told,

  and there’s water in the gas I stole.

Once I decided to find my own way,

  I hit the road, ‘cuz I couldn’t stay.

Passed the wheatfields out on the plain,

 raced the wind and a passenger train.

Saw the high Rockies way up ahead,

 mashed the gas, as onward I sped.

Drivin’ along, I’m feelin’ real good,

 V-8 a-purrin’ under my hood.

When it broke down just out of Fairfield,

 my lack of skills soon were revealed.

I left her hissin’ water and steam,

 that was the end of my motorin’ dream.

Oh, how I miss that Thirty-Nine Ford,

  drivin’ along with the gas pedal floored.

LDT May 14, ‘22

My ’39 Ford coupé was my first car. I was fifteen. It had belonged to Dad and my brother Virg before I got it. It had been upgraded to a bigger, more powerful ’48 Ford engine and converted to column shift.

I was on my way to Glacier Park with my cousin, Mike, when the water pump pully broke. We parked in an alley and took off hitch-hiking.  When I got back the battery had been stolen. I put a for sale sign on it and left.

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