In April 1982, long before I first met her, My wife sent a blistering letter berating the Chairman of the Board of Ford Motor Company for the quality of Ford cars. Audrey's letter was filled with cliches such as "Now I understand why Ford means 'Fix Or Repair Daily" and '"my car is usually 'Found On the Road Dead'" This rare display of Audrey's wrath came abut as a direct result of the catastrophic failure of the engine in what was then, her new Fiesta, and Ford's response to it.
Listing to her long litany of complaints, a Ford customer representative offered to pay half the cost of the repairs, which was not bad, considering the car was out of warranty. In exchange all that Ford requested was for Audrey to say that she was a satisfied Ford customer. Principled as she is, Audrey refused this request, which while in short run, made her feel good, it nevertheless cost her a bunch of money since Ford immediately withdrew their offer and Audrey was stuck with paying the full cost of the engine repair.
Four years later, while dropping a horse off at the veterinary hospital where she worked, I happened to spy her Gold Fiesta. Having put well over 300,000 trouble free miles on my own Fiesta, I had developed quite an affinity for them, even going so far as to have joined a Ford Fiesta fan club. In the hospital I inquired about the owner of the Fiesta in the lot, anticipating that, like me, its owner would relish exchanging happy stories about it. Having heard of my inquiries from her staff, Audrey approached me cautiously, figuring "anyone who liked Fiestas had to be on drugs."
After listing several minutes of my happy go-lucky Fiesta fairy tales, Audrey let out a 15 minute diatribe over the problems she had had with the car, which she ended with a categorical declaration that the only thing she detested worse then her stupid car were people who owned Jack Russell. Her spunky attitude, not to mention her good looks, got the better of me, and before I new it, I was offering to work on her car in exchange for dinners. Unaware of the chain of events her answer would set off, she accepted my offer. As I left the hospital, I surveyed the condition of her car and greedily rubbed my hands in anticipation of the meals I could milk out of the deal. All that stood between us and our fate was for me to figure out how to break the news to Audrey about PJ, my trusty Jack Russell.
Two years and about two hundred meals later, Audrey discovered that I had long since fixed all the problems with her car, and that instead of working on the car while she was slaving over a stove, I was really out playing chase the cat with PJ. Needless to say, she was a tad bit hot at PJ and me. My attempts to remind her how well her car was now running did little to pacify her wrath over having been hoodwinked into cooking me all those dinners by. Threaten with losing access to her great culinary skills, I succumbed to the inevitable and asked her to marry me, much to PJ's dismay.
All went well for Audrey and I and our twin Fiestas for the next several years. In 1991, however, as I was bolting a two by four to the broken frame of my Fiesta, Audrey questioned weather the time had come to retire it a and buy a new car. In spite of the fact that the driver's side door had been rusted shut for two years, and the car filled with smoke every time the headlights light were turned on, I still figured the car's best days were yet to come. My well reasoned rational defense of the car however was undermined when the two by four broke and the drivers seat and the piece of plywood it had been sitting on for the past two years fell to the ground.
With much consternation, I decided that Audrey probably was right and acquiesced to buying a new car. Always looking for a way to save a buck however, I convinced a rightfully skeptical Audrey that the car should be dismantled and its parts stockpiled for spares for the other Fiesta. Much to her dismay, I began dismantling the car in the front yard, and just about everything that could unscrewed, unbolted, or broken off with a hammer was removed, all of which I cataloged, sealed in plastic, and promptly misplaced.
After 13 years and 450,000 miles, I figured my Fiesta deserved a decent burial. So when I got down to the frame, I called Dicky Seiss, a neighbor who specializes in septic system installation, to dig a grave for it in my back yard (Audrey for some reason that still escapes me, had refused my request to bury it in her formal garden). Later, Dicky asked inquisitively if all city folks were that attached to their cars. "Around here we have a saying, 'When they're done running, their still good for flushing,'" irreverently suggesting, of course, that I should have turned my faithful little car into a septic tank.
Well as things go around our farm, Audrey got the new car and I got her Fiesta. Now over the preceding years, Audrey often accused me of not liking her Fiesta as much as I liked my Fiesta, a fact I will not dispute. Chagrinned that I had been duped into cutting up my car, I paid even less attention to her Fiesta. In spite of this, her Fiesta ran trouble free for the next 5 year, and only last spring did it finally begin to show signs of 350,000 miles of ware and tear signs of its age. For several weeks Audrey and I pondered whether the time had come for it, too, to be buried. In the end, my desire not to waste a $120 warranty on the rack and pinon steering unit, not to mention the huge stockpile of used Fiesta parts I had collected over the years, tip the balance in favor of jury rigging a few fixes. Audrey reluctantly acquiesced to my scheme, especially since I assured her the total cost for needed repairs was not exceed $200.
My original plan was to simply pull the engine out of Audrey's car and replace it with the old engine from my car. Although the old engine had been sitting around for several years, it had logged only a couple thousand miles, since it had last been rebuild, and should, I figured, do well. I had taken the precaution of coating it thoroughly with oil, and sealing it in plastic when it was pulled out back in '91. Stored in my carpentry shop, it proved rather useful as a weight for various projects over the years. Unfortunately, the plastic wrapper received a new tear every time I moved it. Needless to say, it was caked in saw dust, and upon closer inspection, it was obvious a simple engine swap was no longer feasible, thought I failed to relay this, and the resultant increase in cost, to Audrey.
The first step was to pull the engine, which was easily accomplished with the aid of my Mount St. Mary's rent-a-student, Stas, and my neighbor, Richard Broadbent. As I was wrapping a sling around the engine to attach to the bucket of Richard's tractor, Stas noticed the "Do Not Use" tag on the slings and question if the slings were safe. "Sure" I said "I got these slings from a safety class I took a couple of years back. They were given out as samples of defective gear that you should not use, but they work great for pulling out fence posts ... I think they'll hold the engine." For some reason, Stas refused to climb under the creaking sling and remove the last bolt holding the engine in. Instead, Stats and Richard stood back and watched me remove the bolt, shaking their head the whole time and mumbling to each other about Audrey needing to up the dosage of my medicine again.
Once the engine was out I quickly began to disassemble it. As I was doing so, Audrey appeared out of nowhere. "Great. I've spent years trying to make this place look nice, and now I have a car on stilts in my front yard and engine pieces in the driveway. This isn't going to take long, is it? I don't want people to think we're from Thurmont.' (See rule #9 of December's OTWBF) "No, it shouldn't take long. Maybe a week or two. I want this engine to be right, so I'm rebuilding it myself." Shaking her head in disbelief, she replied: "Now that's an oxymoron if ever there was one."
By four that afternoon, I had managed to disassemble both engines, and with the help of stas, and several double Gin and Tonics, I had intermix the parts to such a degree that I was no longer sure which parts went with what engine. Perplexed, I sought out the advice of Phil May, who operates an auto repair shop over on Keysville Road. Phil, as I've learned over the past few years, has forgotten more about Fords than most mechanics ever knew. "Fiesta, huh? They were a good little car. Made in England." As Mr. May rattled off the history of the car and his experiences with their engines, it occurred to me that, based upon my recent experience with the tractor, maybe it would be smarter to let him rebuild the engine.
The decision was made academic when Mr. May told me what he would charge to rebuild it. "Are you sure you haven't misplaced a decimal point? This is way too cheap." Smiling, Mr. May said that he thought the price was fair. "Mechanics charge too much today. At my price, I can work on this engine at my pace and have fun. Besides, Kermit Glass said to be nice to you. Something about your medication not being quite right."
Well, in no time at all, Mr. May had rebuilt the engine and the drive shafts, wheel bearings, and just about every other mechanical piece of equipment I could take out of the car. The way I figured it, I couldn't buy the parts cheaper than what I was paying Mr. May to buy and install them for me. Besides, I still had nightmares about the last time I had rebuilt the engine back in 1986. After laboring over it for weeks, I had reinstalled the engine without part of the oil line, an error I did not discover, in spite of red oil warning light shinning in my face, until I had run the engine for several minutes.
When I went to pick up the engine, however, Mr. May refused to give it to me until I gave him the oil pump. When I insisted that I was capable of doing that, he replied, "Sorry, but I've got a reputation to maintain, and if the engine fails, I don't want everyone to read about it in that newspaper you pretend to write for. Besides, this engine looks like it was once run without oil. Didn't you say you rebuilt it last?" Mumbling something about having to get back and help Audrey do the dishes, I handed over the oil pump, and five minutes later, he handed me a shiny engine, and a bill less then half of my most optimistic estimate.
Once I had the engine back in my hands and Mr. May had washed his hands of any further responsibility, the "do not use" slings were pulled out and Stas, Richard, and I made quick work of putting it back into the car. Much to my delight, and right in line with Mr. May's expectations, the engine caught and roared to life the first time I turned the key. Following a few minor adjustments, the engine was purring sweeter then the day it came off the factory floor. Thanks to Mr. May's craftsmanship, I was confident that the car for once was mechanically fit, and I turned my attention to restoring its body.
Now, finding someone to do the body work turned out to be a little harder then I expected. Over the years, the car had developed a good case of rust. Some might even have gone so far as calling it a "rust bucket." Most of my inquiries ended with the suggestion that it would be easier to start with a body out of the junk yard. While they were probably correct, it just wouldn't have been the same thing. I had set about to restore Audrey's Fiesta, and that was what I was going to do.
After being laughed out of just about every auto body shop this side of the Mississippi, my local hardware store suggested I go see John Wood, who runs a small body shop just off Route 15 and STINEWHER Avenue. Now I liked John the minute I met him, especially since the first thing he did was offer me a bottle of good English beer. I sat patently while John began to evaluate to condition of the car, which is a nice way of saying that he walked around punching holes through its rusty skin. After about fifteen minutes of listening to what can best be described as the sound made by 4 ten year old's popping bubble wrap, John let out a "finally!". Biting his bate, I sheepishly inquired about its location, and with a smile, he handed me the car's license plate.
While the offer of the beer defiantly influenced my decision, I asked John to do the body work for four reasons: (1) the body work I saw in progress in his shop was impeccable, (2) his price, like Mr. Mays, was a downright steal (3) he didn't ask if I was an abuser of drugs for wanting to fix a Fiesta, and (4) most importantly, was the fact that the rear axal had almost come off when he tried to remove the two by fours which I had bolted to support the frame, so the car wasn't going anywhere anyway.
In spite of its dilapidate condition, John happily agreed to take it on, explaining that 'Its a little known fact that we in the auto body business are required to do Pro Bono work. They way I figure it, this project should keep my quota in the black well into the next millennium. Now understand, I'm going to take my time on this," John said, "while I specialize in collision repairs, restoration work is good for the soul, and working on this little car will be fun. Bring it back in three weeks and I'll get started on it. By the way, do you want that two by four, or can I have it?"
The following weekend I began the long awaited dismantling of the car. Everything that had not been removed for Mr. May, door latches, lights, windows, bumpers, seats, and nuts and bolts of every shape and size were removed, bagged, cataloged, and as usual, promptly misplaced or carried off and buried by one of our dogs. Three weeks later, as promised, John was ready to begin work on the car. Before the real restoration work could begin, John had to spend a fair amount of time undoing years of my patchwork. The two by fours were removed with great care, least the car split in half. The plywood upon which the seats had sat for the past few years was removed with great difficulty, especially since I had superglued it in place. Then there was the fourteen gallons of Bondo...
John surveyed my car, like a surgeon conducting triage. "Is going to get a little ugly, there's a lot of rust that's got to be cut out, I think it would be better if you didn't stay around and watch. we'll call you when its in the recovery room." And with that, John turned to his assistant and asked for the turbo powered metal cutting chain saw, ACTILINE torch, and the jaws of life, and with that, I was out there.
Under what can only be called a craftsman's hand, John managed to successfully stripped the Fiesta down to the bare frame and all the rusted parts were removed, which--I soon discovered--amounted to a rather sizable portion of the car. Following the removal of all unusable metal, John handcrafted a new undercarriage and welded it to the six remaining inches of the original frame. With the body now ridged for the first time in years, John then set about installing new rocker panels and rear fenders, and a used hatch back from a local junkyard. With the exterior again bearing some semblance to the shape of a Fiesta, John turned his attention to the interior, again handcrafting all the metal work, including the floor pans, spare tire compartment and trunk.
Every few days I would eagerly stop by John's to see what could truly be called a metamorphosis. While admittance was always a six-pack of good English beer, it was always worth the price. Once the course body work was done, the fine work began. The car was hand sanded down to bare metal, years worth of minor of dents and dings were reveled and masterfully fixed, and all the major body components, e.g., the door, hood, and hatchback, were realigned to their original factory specification.
Following extensive priming, the actual painting went quickly and flawlessly. Before I knew it, John had turned the rusty gold Fiesta that I had despised for so long into a sleek, metallic, dark jade green touring machine, or something to that effect. Even Audrey admitted that the car had never looked so good, even when it was brand new. I was astounded with John's impeccable work. I was even more pleased when John's bill was exactly what had been agreed to, even thought the scope and depth of the necessary work proved to be much more then he had bargained for.
With newly painted car in hand, I headed down to Quality Tire to have tires put on the newly painted rims. Bob Mort took one look at the new paint job and smiled. "I had form Paul at Zurgable Brother's that you were restoring that old rust bucket of yours. Audrey still hasn't found the right medicine yet to keep you under control, huh?" Chuckling to himself, he disappeared into the back of his store and quickly returned with tires he had specially ordered for me. I gingerly handed him the newly painted rims, which he handled as if they were gold relics. "I hear Phil May did your engine work, good man Phil, you know I sponsor his son's race car?..." As we traded jokes about Thurmont, Bob mount and install the new tires without a single nick to the rims, a feat I've unfortunately been unable to repeat.
Recognizing that the quality of the work on the Fiesta to date had been exceptional, I decided that I would go all out and finish the car right. What was missing I figured, was something that would make the car rather unique, like the real wood interiors found in Rolas Royce's (SPELLING). As I was plotting my strategy with Joe Wivell, Jr. (who managed to keep a straight face through it all), Joe suggested that I use Walnut, some scraps of which he had saved from a project from many years back. Under the watchful eyes and skillful hands of Ed Reaver, Emmitsburg's Premier Cabinet maker, the scrap walnut was quickly cut, glued edge to edge, and planed down to size. What had been raw walnut boards days hours before were now beautiful walnut panels.
Following Ed's detailed guidance, I set about shaping the panels to fit the inside of the Fiesta's doors, and then with the help again of Richard Broadbent, then were finish sanded, sealed and installed. I then removed all the original fake wood on the dashboard and replaced it with the scraps that Ed had thoughtfully saved for me. For the coup-de-grace, a walnut stereo deck was also made and installed.
After spending a week tracking down the hinges, bolts, and other car components that our new puppy had carted off, I was finally able to finish the reassembly of the car. And after some minor shakedown problems (e.g., the windshield wipers flying off at an inopportune time during a heavy rainstorm), I was finally able to return the car to its daily duty of transporting back and forth to work. Needless to say, Audrey was pleased as punch with the results, and even managed restrain herself and not mention that my original time estimate of two weeks had turned into five months, and my original cost estimate for the total restoration, upon which she had based her OK, had been exceeded 10 fold.
In the end, the car Audrey berated Ford for 14 years ago is getting close to 37 MPG, and is humming along steadier then ever. Following the tightening of the last nut and taping of the last electrical lead, I sat down and wrote a long letter to the current Chairman of the Board of Ford Motors, reiterating the story you have just read. I attached a copy of Audrey's original letter, and photos of 'My' Fiesta, just so he would know "...the rest of the story."
Michael lives with his wife Audrey on their farm east of Emmitsburg, Maryland, where his wife spends her time field-testing promising new herbal remedies to treat neurotic husbands.