T-Bird Magic

“Hey Dad, can you look at my car? There’s a bunch of black smoke billowing out of the tailpipe.”

“Hey Dad, can you look at my car? There’s a bunch of black smoke billowing out of the tailpipe.”

He came out, popped the hood and had me start the car, my first, a 1973 Chevrolet Impala. He saw the smoke and told me to pull it into the driveway near the garage so he could jack it up and see what was going on underneath. It was cold and damp out and the roads were slushy. In other words, March in southeastern Michigan.

Dad got out the creeper—essentially a board on tiny wheels—laid down on it, and scooted under the car. Muttered something about the engine “making oil.”

I expected him to tell me to park it until he could get parts. After all, he was a crack mechanic who could fix anything.

Not this time. Instead, we ended up driving it to the junkyard. He said I could drive Ma’s Ford Zephyr to and from art school interim, but I would need to find a new car.

This was pre-internet 1984 so I scoured the local Tradin’ Times and found an ad for a 1978 Ford Thunderbird coupe for $1,300. I made an appointment to go see it and Dad threw some tools and the creeper in his van and we went to check it out.

Photo By Sicnag - 1978 Ford Thunderbird Hardtop, CC BY 2.0,

It was butter yellow, with a brown vinyl roof and opera lights on the B pillar. Concealed headlights, which I loved, but Dad didn’t because they tended to break, meaning they failed to close when you shut the headlights off. Five foot long doors and a hood so big it had its own zip code. No rust. Inside, brown velour bench sheets. Power windows. Overall, very clean.

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The 1978 Ford Thunderbird was huge—225 inches long and 80 inches wide, and a beast at 5,000 pounds. Starting with the 1977 model, the T-Bird was Ford’s entrant in the personal luxury car market, to compete with the Buick Riviera. It got about 10-11 miles per gallon—if you drove conservatively.

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Dad looked under the hood first and then jacked up the car and scooched underneath. He didn’t say anything. We then drove it around. The power steering action was so silky you could turn the wheel with one finger. And its 302 cu in (4.9 L) Windsor V8 engine satisfied my main criteria, which was that if I needed to stomp on the gas pedal to get out trouble on the freeway, the car would get up and go. Dad told the guy we’d take it and he’d come back the next day with the money.

Back in the van, Dad said, “Looks like the oil pan gasket needs to be replaced, but just keep dumping oil into it and we’ll fix it in the spring.”

Two months and five quarts of 10w-30 later, I heard the connecting rod knock. The previous owners had put in heavy oil to mask the sound.

***

The car sat in the driveway until April when Dad and a buddy used the cherry picker (engine hoist) that lived in our backyard to take out the old engine.

I spent the better part of that summer sanding and painting the inside of the engine compartment with Ospho rust treatment. The engine compartment sans engine was the size of a small apartment and so there was a lot of real estate to cover.

It was meditative work, except when I accidentally got the stuff on my hands, which burned. I had my assignment, but rarely was I out there by myself. The garage was my Dad’s “man cave” and so it was good to hang out with him while he puttered even if neither of us said too much.

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In fact, one of the best things about hanging out with Dad in the garage, or being in the car, was not having to say anything if you didn’t want to. You could just go ask if he needed help and he’d give you something to do. I sorted a lot of nuts, bolts, and washers into jars.

Conversely, Ma and her people were all about the drama, Dad was all the way on the other end of the spectrum; and possibly on the spectrum. His inability to read people created a lot of problems for him personally and professionally.

To that end, I don’t think Dad ever really got me and he was just as much of a mystery and so in a way we were even. The greatest joy in that relationship I think for both of us was really in the experience of working together.

***

While I was busy painting the perimeter of the engine compartment, Dad was busy prepping the new engine that would go back in it. It and the 4,574 other parts that connected it to the car were spread out on the garage floor.

I knew my dad was good at changing tires, replacing brakes, and changing oil and spark plugs. He’d also told me lots of stories about things he’d done in his younger days, like being pit crew at a racetrack. But I’d never actually seen him do anything of this magnitude before.

Then one day in early fall I came home from school and my Dad handed me the key to my car.

I slid onto the big brown velour bench seat, stuck the key in the ignition and twisted it forward.

The engine turned over easily and roared to life.

For Dad, it was just another day at the office.

For me, it was a magic moment I’ll never forget.