Thirty-Nine Ford

Thirty-nine Ford, Forty-eight mill,

  zippin’ along up Milk River Hill.

That motor was fine, a two-thirty-nine,

  the paint didn’t shine, but damn it was mine.

Five window coupe, three on the tree,

  pull out the choke, then turn the key.

Hydraulic brakes to get her to stop,

  worn-out shocks to get her to hop.

Open the windshield with a pipe wrench,

  that would remove the cigarette stench.

Bicycle tube to hold the trunk down,

  it’s all that I need to get me around.

The radio was a Superheterodyne;

  it picked up KOMA, with music so fine.

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

  it had water in the gas that I stole.

Once I decided to find my own way,

  I hit the road; I just couldn’t stay.

Past the wheatfields out on the plain,

  racin’ the wind and a passenger train.

Saw the Rockies up there ahead,

  I mashed the gas, and on I sped.

About this time, I’m feelin’ real good,

  V-8 a-purrin’ under the hood.

When it broke down outside of Fairfield,

  my mechanical skills were never revealed.

I left her hissin’ water and steam,

  that was the end of my motorin’ dream.

Oh, how I miss that little old Ford,

  drivin’ along with the gas pedal floored.

LDT Feb 7, ‘26

That car belonged to my brother Virg, and my Dad before I got it. Someone put a bigger, 1948 engine and column-shifted transmission in it. I left Glasgow at the end of the Summer of 1960 and picked up cousin Mike in Fort Benton. We were headed for Glacier Park when a water pump pulley broke off. We left it in the gas station attendant\’s backyard and took off hitch-hiking. By the time I got back, someone had stolen the battery. I sold it for $25.

         The car had an enormous trunk, much like the Moonshiner car in Thunder Road. To get a little more speed out of it, I soon learned to push hard on the rotten floorboard. That gave it another 20 MPH.

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