CarPort

Two weeks ago, I posted this same picture with the caveat that it was “not an inauguration picture.” It seems, however, that I may have to eat some crow, for there is evidence that it was indeed taken during Calvin Coolidge’s 1925 inaugural celebrations.

When I bought the photo from a British source many years ago it was captioned “President Harding.” I know that couldn’t be the case, for not only does he not resemble Harding but the car in which he’s riding is a 1924 Packard Single Eight, a model introduced in December 1923. Harding died the previous August. Others, older than I, have recognized Coolidge immediately in the photo.

In speculating on event depicted I opined that the military man sitting next to Coolidge looked like a Russian general, perhaps Joseph Stalin. Silly me. Both Dennis David and Randy Poole, both CarPorters of long standing, emailed immediately to say it is General John “Black Jack” Pershing. But the date and reason for the photo remained a nagging mystery. I wondered if the pennant or flag on the car yielded a clue. Jim Merrick, the insightful archivist at the Stanley Museum and who was responsible for much of the research in my Stanley Steamer book, said the shield looked like that on the Massachusetts state flag, and so it does, in reverse as it might appear on a pennant intended to face the crowd. Close examination suggests it’s not on the car at all, but is strung up to remain unfurled before the assembled audience.

The big breakthrough was Dennis’s discovery of newsreel footage of Coolidge’s 1925 inauguration on YouTube. Fortunately, YouTube allows the inquisitive historian to stop the film almost frame by frame for a closer look. If you watch the movie carefully you’ll see the president and party getting into one of several Pierce-Arrow touring cars. Then you’ll see bands and more cars in the inaugural parade. At 2:53 I’m sure I see “our” Packard, disc wheels, Winterfront and all, but I can’t make out who’s in it. Then at 4:28 comes the clincher, a view of the reviewing shelter or kiosk, which I swear is decorated exactly as it appears in our photo. The photo, then, must have been taken during that inauguration.

There are some connections that help corroborate my conclusions. Coolidge, although a Vermont native. spent his entire pre-Washington political career in Massachusetts, becoming the 48th Governor in 1919, before moving on two years later as Harding’s running mate. And Pershing? Well, the US Army Band, instigated by Pershing and known as “Pershing’s Own,” were making their inauguration debut in that parade. They’ve marched for every presidential inauguration since.

…Fifth Avenue, the photographers will snap us.” Irving Berlin, who wrote those words to his song “Easter Parade” in 1948, probably knew about DeSotos, but he could hardly have foreseen Wayne Graefen, the CarPort’s Texas Ranger. Wayne gads about in Texas and environs looking for interesting autos. Sometimes he buys them, like the Hupp Eight we featured last summer. Before Wayne could decide what to do with his solid but worn Hupmobile, he happened upon a Hupp aficionado who wanted it badly. Never one to disappoint a salivating enthusiast with cash in pockets, Wayne sold it.

And so last fall he was surfing through the Hot Rod Hot Line, an online marketplace aimed at the rodding fraternity. What should he find but a 1942 DeSoto Fifth Avenue convertible, for sale in Kansas. You’ll remember the ‘42 DeSotos from the CarPort’s first season. They’re the ones with hidden, “Airfoil” headlights and a host of options which, when bundled together, made up the “Fifth Avenue ensemble.” There were just 568 DeSoto convertibles built in the war-shortened 1942 model year. How many could have been Fifth Avenues, do you think? Wayne didn’t think too long. He went to investigate and soon he owned the car.

It’s solid but a bit forlorn. It was last worked on some 20 years ago, when someone installed an inappropriate vinyl interior. Outside, it’s quite presentable, aside from the odd paint on the fenders and a crooked rear bumper, now fixed with a proper mounting bracket. Brightwork is good, the dashboard sparkles and it has the coveted cigarette dispensing steering wheel (some parts are off the car), funky fender skirts, translucent hood ornament and obligatory Fifth Avenue emblems. The engine is neat, if not detailed.

Like Dorothy, the Fifth Avenue awoke to find it wasn’t in Kansas any more. In Texas, however, Wayne wondered what he should do. A megabuck restoration would probably not return its cost, and the car is fairly presentable as is. Moreover, he’s not sure it’s a “real” Fifth Avenue. Each of the options, after all, could be ordered on its own or combined with one or more of the others. Those emblems, moreover, might have been transplanted from another car, perhaps one of more mundane body style. The car itself has taken the Fifth, so he’s requested its DNA from Chrysler Historical. While he waits for the verdict, he’s installed a nice set of Studebaker wheel covers. They look good, he says, on “any car, any time.” From my experience I tend to agree.

It was cold in Washington, DC, this week, as the nation inaugurated our 44th President. For President Obama and his entourage there was no discomfort, as their new hermetically-sealed Cadillac limos kept them warm and dry. For the millions on the mall, however, it was shivers and shakes as the thermometer hovered in the high 20s. There was a time, however, when presidents and public alike braved the cold winds.

The photo above is not an inauguration picture, but it is presidential. The man in the top hat is Calvin Coolidge, who served from the death of Warren Harding in August 1923 until the inauguration of Herbert Hoover in March 1929. I’m not sure about his passenger and presumptive guest, but he looks rather like Joseph Stalin, then establishing his power in the Soviet Union after the death of Lenin (see update below). The license plate dates the photo to 1925, and the car is not an official White House convenyance but a ’24 Packard Single Eight running on DC dealer plates. Cool Cal and his guest are bracing against the wind, but the car is comfy warm thanks to its Pines Winterfront.

The Pines Winterfront Co. of Chicago manufactured thermostatically controlled radiator shutters. Invented by James Raleigh in the early 1920s, the Winterfront had a thermostat that pressed against the radiator core. When cold, its shutters cut off air flow, allowing the engine to warm up. When warmed up (I’ve read that the threshold was 130 degrees F, appropriate in the days of alcohol-based antifreeze with a low boiling point), the thermostat operated levers that opened the louvers. Winterfronts were sometimes made in universal generic form, like this display discovered by Eric Minoff, webmeister of the long-slumbering blog Cars at Large, at the National Automobile Museum in Reno, Nevada. Others were shaped for a custom fit to their cars. Dan Strohl, protagonist at the Hemmings Blog and an inspired young pundit who gives us hope for the new breed of automotive journalists, came across a Peerless-badged Winterfront at Hershey in 2007. A trash can special, it was shaped specially to conform to the radiator of the 1926-28 models, much as the presidential Winterfront was tailored to the Packard’s hallmark shell. Dan has since sold his Winterfront to a passionate Peerless partisan. In the early 1930s, some manufacturers used Pines thermostats to operate the shutters on their OEM radiator grilles.

Other automakers stuck with the pure and simple. Angus, my 1925 Hudson, has manually-operated louvers. A rod from the dashboard enables the driver to move them from open to shut, but one must watch the temperature gauge in order to regulate properly. Hudson built them into the radiator shell, but others, like this 1926 Nash, used a manual aftermarket unit.

Some time in the 1930s, manufacturers began to install thermostats inside their engines (does anyone know who was first, and when?). Thereafter, the need for Winterfronts faded. Eric notes that you never see Winterfronts on collector cars today. While they might be considered the ultimate accessory, they’re useless on cars that are seldom driven in cold weather. Moreover, even those that are an exact fit to the radiator inevitably compromise the car’s looks.

UPDATE: Dennis David points out that a better candidate for the mystery General is John “Black Jack” Pershing, then General of the Armies. It did occur to me that Stalin was unlikely to be in Washington in 1925 – the US didn’t recognize the USSR until 1933. Does the flag on the car tell us more? Cropped out of the big picture is a reviewing kiosk or shelter bearing the general form of the Seal of the United States of America. So what was this event?

I’ve mentioned before that I never had Tonka toys when I was growing up. I was not deprived, however. By the time I was seven or eight I had been given several Dinky Toys, and a new era in my life had begun.

Dinky Toys were a British invention, sold by Meccano, Ltd., makers of construction sets akin to the Erector Sets made from 1911 to 1967 by the A.C. Gilbert Company of New Haven, Connecticut. Called “Modelled Miniatures,” the first Dinkys appeared in 1934. They were die-cast models of popular cars and trucks in 1/42 scale, and were an immediate hit: by 1935 there were 200 different types.

Production halted during World War II, when metal was diverted to military use. Dinky manufacture resumed in 1945, and the postwar drive to export from Britain brought them to the United States. My first Dinky was an Alvis sports car, a make I’d never heard of. So fascinated was I with my Alvis that when a young truck driver from Memphis hit the charts with “Heartbreak Hotel” in 1956 I thought he’d been named for the car.

Other early arrivals in my Dinky collection were an Austin A40 Devon, of which there were many real examples in our northwest Connecticut neighborhood, an early British taxi and a double decker bus (I don’t remember what happened to its tyres). Meccano knew their success depended on export, so American makes were not neglected. I had a ‘49 Ford, a ‘48 Hudson Commodore and a ‘48 Plymouth station wagon. On Saturdays, when I had saved a dollar from my allowance, I’d go to Marshall’s Toyland and buy another Dinky.

There was one rather generic “truck” that appeared with a variety of bodies (mine lost an eye), an “articulated lorry” and a “tipper” (dump truck) whose bed could be raised with a crank. My earlier Dinkys saw much hard use; as time went on I played less so wear and tear decreased. My Land Rover shows only muddy tyres, the Studebaker fuel tanker looks almost new.

There were farming Dinkys, like the Massey-Harris with harrow, construction machinery like the road roller, and two- and three-wheel variants like the Royal Automobile Club patrol unit. The breakdown lorry, aka tow truck, had a working crane and winch. Now Quite rare, I’m told, are the petrol pump set and the vintage road signs.

My favorite Dinky is the Jaguar XK120 Fixed Head Coupe, a car I’ve found attractive from first sight. Even today, I drool when I see a real one. Until quite recently the Dinky Austin A90 Atlantic was the only example of that car that I’d ever seen.

Meccano was taken over by Tri-Ang, another British toymaker, in 1964, and afterwards the brand changed hands again and again. Eventually it was absorbed by Matchbox, now part of the eponymous Mattel empire. Dinky Toys, alas, are not what they used to be, but mine live on in a dusty old shoe box. From time to time I get them out to play.

It was July 1990 and we were driving along in Beluga, our 1970 Chevy Impala, headed for a week’s vacation in Vermont. We’d been contemplating a change in our automotive stable, as our three children were outgrowing the Impala and our other vehicles comprised a Peugeot 504 Diesel and a rusty Dodge Club Cab pickup. “What’s that?” said Jill, referring to a large station wagon towing an immense camper that passed us easily on the Interstate. “That,” said I, “is a Chevrolet Suburban.” Instantly I had the answer to our dilemma.

I’d had a long succession of pickup trucks, the Club Cab a concession to the growing family, but increasingly a compromise one. Our friends were all buying minivans, a solution that was entirely practical yet unappealing. A Suburban, I reasoned, would replace both the Impala and the pickup, while forgoing only the ability to haul a load of manure for the garden.

A couple of weeks later I was perusing the Washington Post over breakfast while on a business trip to the nation’s capital, when a classified item jumped out at me: 1980 Chevy Suburban, 454, towing package, low miles. With time to spare before my return flight that afternoon , I went to take a look. It was a ’79, not an ’80, but nearly indistinguishable since last redesign in 1973. The “low miles” were in the high 80s, but the price was negotiable. The seller took my offer, so I went to a bank and took a cash advance on my credit card so I could close the deal and go home with the title.

With temporary plates in hand, my son Edward and I (he the railfan) took the train to DC, then a taxi to Hyattsville, Maryland, where the Suburban awaited us. I had not driven the ‘burb before purchase, as it was neither registered nor insured. Setting out on a 400 mile trip with no shakedown was a bit of a gamble, but the truck ran strong, if a bit rough, and displayed 45 psi oil pressure at idle.

I had bought a half-ton, two-wheel drive Suburban with Chevy’s tough 454 cubic inch Mk IV engine. It had the all-important Class III hitch receiver and low-line mirrors. While not as sure-footed as a 4×4, its limited slip differential enabled it to cope easily with snow drifts. The upscale Silverado interior was state of the art in the day before power windows and leather had become de rigeur, it had the stylish Rally Wheels. While cargo doors were standard on Suburbans this one had been ordered with an electric window tailgate. It had its foibles. The air conditioning didn’t hold a charge for long, and the cruise control had a vacuum leak that caused it to cruise in fits and starts. The roughness in the engine was traced to a missing pushrod. Someone had disabled both valves on one cylinder, perhaps as an economy measure. In any case, reconverting the V7 to a V8 made a world of difference. We named it “Strawberry Shortcake” after its color scheme of Cardinal Red and Santa Fe Tan.

Strawberry Shortcake took us far and wide, to Cape Cod, to Nova Scotia and easily towed my vintage Shasta camper to Hershey each October. The 454 pulled like a locomotive, so towing Angus, my 1925 Hudson was an easy task. After four years and about 60,000 miles I aspired to something different, so I sold Strawberry Shortcake to a classmate of my son Nick and treated myself to….another Suburban.

One thing instilled in me by my late father was an appreciation for tools, their care and feeding and especially the use of the right tool for the job. As a jack of many trades, in his 89-year lifetime he accumulated quite an array of tools, many of which I still have.

One Christmas, some time after I started messing with cars, my parents gave me a set of socket wrenches. It was a wonderful present for a car-obsessed boy, and in the ensuing 50 years I’ve added to it. The initial set was half-inch drive, entirely adequate for the engines of that day, but over time I’ve acquired 3/8 and 1/4-inch drive sets and many specialized tools.

However, one never has enough tools. That was brought home to me shortly before Christmas when I decided to treat my current Chevy Suburban to a tune up, which these days consists merely of spark plugs, new wires and a distributor cap. The Suburban’s small block Chevy V8 is very old-tech, forty years and counting when it was built. You’d think that any old tools would fit, but I found it impossible to remove the last two plugs on the left bank. My deep sockets were half-inch drive; the location demanded an extension but my short extension was too long. I had beaucoup extensions for my 3/8-drive set, but not for the half. Luckily, my next-door neighbor is a diesel mechanic with a cellar full of tools, and he doesn’t mind lending. Fortunately, he was home so I borrowed a 3/8 drive deep socket. Instantly, though, I had an item to add to my Christmas wish list. While I was at it, I also asked for a new tool box, as my old ones had started to overflow.

My family did not disappoint. Jill and Harriet came up with 3/8-drive deep sockets, one set in inch sizes and the other metric. Nick followed with a superb tool box with three-drawer storage, plus a swiveling ratchet handle that will make the next plug change a breeze. Edward suggested I get some household drawer liner for the new box, which I duly installed before moving the tools to their new home. My traveling tools, however, the ones I take everywhere, remain in the Army surplus ammo box that’s been their nest for decades.

Each of our children, male and female, has been given a tool set when they’ve reached the tinkering age. It occurred to me, though, that, while Jill has a collection of odd tools she keeps in her car, she has never had a proper set of socket wrenches. So for Christmas this year I got her a 53-piece set that should accomplish most any task she’ll face. It’s already seeing good use.

You’ve read about my fondness for the 1935 Ford, the car my parents had when I was born, and how I’d like to have one some day. I’m pleased to report that the day has come, in a modest sort of way.

This past October my cousin Suzy (center, between my sister Rosemary and wife Jill) came to visit us. Suzy and I are second cousins – our grandmothers were sisters – and she wanted to visit the family home town in New Jersey. We made a brief trip to Morristown, where I was born, stopping at Acorn Hall, headquarters and museum of the Morris County Historical Society, to which she had given several family heirlooms.

As we prepared to leave the museum, we made a quick stop in the gift shop. A small ornament on a table caught my eye: it was in the form of a 1935 Ford Deluxe Fordor Sedan, but for color identical to our old car (which I now think must have been a Deluxe, rather than Standard, model). It was priced at a modest $5.00 and there was only one, so I quickly bought it.

On closer examination I found it was a hanging ornament, and a box behind it held a cache of small plastic cars. The small cars were interesting but not exceptional, unlike the Ford on the box top, which was a serendipitous masterpiece.

We trim our tree on Christmas Eve, and it stays up the full twelve days of the season. Most of the ornaments are home made, many by our children, and the rest have a special significance, like the old car given me by a student many years ago when I was teaching Sunday School. The modern version of Mommycar, certainly, has special significance to me, so it has joined our collection of Yuletide treasures.

On Monday, the CarPort will begin its fifth year of operation. I’d like to thank all those who have contributed stories and photos, and all of you who visit on a regular basis. I never cease to be amazed at the reach of the CarPort. Just last week I heard from João in Brazil who emailed that “your site is fantastic!” Thanks, João, and I hope you continue to enjoy it for years to come.

It comes as no surprise that the Big Three are extending their holiday plant shutdowns this year. The great industrial drama has been playing on the news for some time now, the players dancing around bankruptcy and government mulling a rescue plan. Although the times and situations are very different, one can’t help remembering the December forty-five years ago when Studebaker announced the closing of its plants in South Bend, Indiana.

Studebaker was South Bend. Generations of families had worked in the plants, from the days of Conestoga wagons to the first electric cars to Big Sixes and Presidents and Commanders and and Starliners. Then on December 9, 1963, shortly after production of the 1964 models began, came the announcement. Production of cars and station wagons would move to Canada, and the Hawks and the striking new Avanti would be dropped. As a third-generation Studebaker worked once told me, “Bad news always came at Christmas.” He had just returned from the Army and followed in the footsteps of his father and grandfather working at South Bend’s largest employer. Then, in an instant, he was joining the ranks of the unemployed.

In the industry there were great hopes that a leaner, more efficient Studebaker could prove viable at a plant in Hamilton, Ontario. The foundries at South Bend had been shuttered and there were none at Hamilton, so engines were sourced from Chevrolet. A substantial line of passenger cars was offered, including the innovative Wagonaire and a Daytona series of upscale cars. In the end, it was all for naught, as the last Studebaker, a Cruiser four-door sedan, left the lines on March 16, 1966. Fewer than 9,000 cars had been produced for the model year.

There’s no reason to believe the Studebaker model serves as a crystal ball for the American automobile industry, that Big Three factories will never reopen. We could just as easily cite the so-called “Chrysler bailout” of 1979. In that case, government-backed loans enabled Chrysler Corporation to stay afloat and regroup. The taxpayers got their money back and then some, because the Mopar folks had a couple of hit products, the incredibly useful minivan and a trendy line of trucks. Even if the Big Three are exiled into bankruptcy and meet their demise it will not spell the end of the American auto industry. Foreign-owned plants, mostly in the South, will continue to build cars – very soon we expect to be driving one. Regardless of what happens in Detroit, some remnant of General Motors will probably still be building Buicks in China for many years to come. It is safe to say, however, that the American auto industry we knew will look quite different before 2009 is over.

A few months ago, I said I remember “Mommycar,” my mother’s 1935 Ford, as a Standard model. I’m beginning to doubt my recollections, as Standards came with one taillight and the only photo I can find clearly shows two. Of course, some items standard on the Deluxe model, like the second taillight and second horn, could be ordered as options or fitted by a dealer. We don’t have a frontal view, so we can’t tell if the car had the chrome grille and windshield moulding of the Deluxe or painted style of the Standard.

Ford’s model distinctions in the mid-1930s were subtle. In 1934, the Deluxe customer got a better interior, additional brightwork, a second horn and taillight, cowl lamps and body color fenders. The differences were similar in 1935, bright versus black and two taillights in place of one. This held true in 1936 as well, but the horns were now hidden behind round fender grilles, obscuring an identity clue. Standard cars were available only in closed body styles.

For 1937, too, painted versus bright grilles and windshield mouldings were the only tell-tales from the front, though the new small V8-60 engine was available in the Standard model. The following year, however, Ford made it plain what Deluxe customers got for their money – an attractive new nose with heart-shaped grille. Buyers of the Standard received a warmed-over 1937 nose, though the effect, if old, was not unattractive. In turn, the 1939 Standard Ford was based on the ’38 Deluxe, while the new Deluxe had entirely new front sheet metal.

Sealed beam headlights were the new feature for 1940, and both series had them. The Deluxe accented them with bold chrome rims and a new grille, while the Standard was given to body color trim and a variation on the ’39 Deluxe grille. This was the final year for the V8-60.

For 1941, new bodies and chassis put an end to separate sheet metal for the series, of which there were now three. What had been Deluxe was now Super Deluxe, with appropriate brightwork, while Standard became Deluxe, with painted side grilles and windshield mouldings. A six-cylinder engine supplanted the small V8, and there was an economy Special series offered in three body styles in one color choice (Harbor Gray) and the six-cylinder engine. A similar lineup was offered for the abbreviated 1942 model year.

After the war, there were two series, of varying names, until 1952 when upscale models were put into a new Crestline series. Never again, however, did Ford offer different different sheet metal for different series until the compact Falcon of 1960.

For more than thirty years the Fosters have driven old cars, exclusively. At one time we’d buy well-kept 16 or 17-year-old vehicles. These days we like our creature comforts and a bit of luxury so the cars are some eight years old when they come to us, with about 100,000 miles. I’m fond of saying we put on the second hundred thousand.

And so it was when Jill’s 230,000 mile Peugeot shredded its driveshaft in June of 2005 we went looking for its successor. After driving a Saab and a Suburu, both of which were atrocious, we happened upon an eight-year-old Mazda Millenia with 106,000 miles. She made a deal and bought it.

The Millenia, you may remember, was designed to launch Mazda’s luxury brand Amati, to challenge Acura, Infiniti and Lexus. By the time it was ready, however, Mazda had decided that a new dealer network would be too costly, so the car was rebadged to sell as a Mazda, effectively replacing the 929 as the flagship model.

Introduced in the summer of 1994 as ’95 model, the oddly-spelled Millenia targeted Acura’s Legend, the Infiniti J30 and Lexus ES300. Priced $6,000 below the cheapest of them it seemed an incredible bargain, loaded as it was with heated leather and mirrors, traction control and a power-tilt steering wheel (with memory). For an extra six grand you could get a supercharged and intercooled Miller-cycle 2.3 liter V6, the first such powerplant on the US market, The base engine was Mazda’s four-valve normally-aspirated KL-ZE 2.5 liter V6, used also in the 626, MX-6 and Ford Probe.

Best of all, both Jill and I found it very attractive, commodious and comfortable. The roof worshiped both sun and moon, and the heated seats would roast your buns off. One thing the Millenia didn’t do was sell lots of cars. While Lexus sold about 40,000 ES300s, and the Acura and Infiniti equivalents about half that, Millenia sales were underwhelming. Thus, its resale value at eight years old was pretty puny. We drove away with what seemed like an incredibly good deal.

To be sure, the car soon needed repairs, struts front and rear and two new tires. Since we had no service history it also got a new timing belt and water pump, just in case. I soon tired of driving it. Handling was so-so and the 2.5 liter engine proved a bit puny for the 3,200-pound car. Jill liked it, but found the rearward visibility entirely unsatisfactory for someone of her height.

Ten thousand miles later, however, the new tensioner for the new timing belt let go. Fortunately we got it into the shop before any lasting damage was done. The Millenia engine is an “interference” design. When it’s working properly it doesn’t interfere with anything, but if it should lose time or break a timing belt the four camshafts will send the 24 tiny valves crashing into the pistons. For an older car, repair will cost more than the vehicle is worth.

Two weeks ago, Jill came home from a business trip. It was 1:00 AM and pouring with rain. She’d lost her cell phone at the airport. She put the car away and told me it had suddenly lost power about five miles from home, so she limped it on to her destination. The next day I tried to diagnose the malady. As soon as I started it up, I heard heavy metal. Somehow or other it had jumped time and the engine was running interference. We didn’t figure out exactly what had failed, and by that time it didn’t matter.

Some you win, some you lose. The car gave us 3-1/2 years, though barely 22,000 miles. On the grand scale of things, it was probably not a bad investment – the depreciation alone on a new car would have dwarfed our outlay over the same period. Still, it was a hard pill to take $200 from the dismantler (they’ve gone upscale – their license plates used to read “JUNK”) and watch the car being hooked up and towed away.

There’s a bright side. Its replacement was already being planned. Jill just has to wait a month until it’s ready.