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Pritchard House Tales
Be kind to machines
By Ludford Creef
My first automobile ride was a rather lengthy one from California to Virginia in a small black 1940 Ford two-door coupe in 1945. It must have been on that ride that I developed my love for things that move and mechanical parts that mesh together and harmonize into characteristic tones. The sounds of machines are their work songs as they drone along doing the tasks they were designed to do. A new machine with close tolerances and clean lubricated parts emits sounds of efficiency which are pleasing to the tuned mechanical ear. Old machines chatter with fatigue as their tolerances have increased and the moving parts have worn leaving chips and dust that were once proud gears or bear ings. Their sounds resemble groans.
As a child I loved to watch the adults trim the Christmas tree because all those pieces are just cold things until they are joined to the assembly. Even then it was anti-climactic until the bubble lights warmed up and the bubbles began to flow. I would sit and enjoy the tree smell and all the shiny colors but until the bubble lights made their magic and danced, it was not running yet.
Finally, my dream came true. I was able to take apart a bubble light and one of my teachers explained how and why the heat from the electric bulb caused the liquid to boil/bubble. After that I lost some of my awe for bubble lights as I realized they were just another example of smart widgets that work to give us pleasure.
Grandparents are a lot like old machines as they once sang the happy tunes of work but wear and time exchanged the songs for groans due to excessive tolerances. One of the most flagrant mistakes made by grandparents is trying to make sure their grandkids never fall behind in the "toy race." My first excessive "gift of lavish" was an electric train that I did not appreciate for its value. I was just too young to give it a value. One rainy day I smuggled the engine to my secret hiding place and thoughtlessly took it apart searching for the magic that made it go. The deeper I dug for the secret, the bigger the parts pile became and soon I realized that whatever made the thing run was beyond my comprehension.
Another day during my mid-teen years, an old black 1947 Ford deluxe sedan was towed into our yard. My parents said, "This car is for you but not until you put on license plates and insurance." That day I became an indentured servant to an endless line of vehicles that continues to this day. The old Ford needed and needed and needed and my parents were sure this would be an overwhelming project but they underestimated my resourcefulness. I was working at the Cities Service gasoline station weekends and learning like a sponge. In no time at all the tires, shocks and battery were replaced. Now I could start and drive the old Ford around the field. The Future Farmers shop had plenty of tools and I was able to clean the spark plugs, rebuild the fuel pump and rod out the radiator under the watchful eye of my advisor. Within six months, the old Ford was ready for the road and I entered into yet another indenture agreement with the automobile insurance agency, the easy payment plan forever!
This was also when I realized that some days, I loved the old Ford and other days, I regretted I was addicted to it. This was my first love/hate relationship. I gave that old Ford anything it asked for and even some extras but the needs just never stopped. One day I heard a new noise I had dreaded because I knew the old Ford had lived a long life and some day would die. The noise I heard was a knock deep in the connecting rod/crank shaft region. I knew the Ford was very sick. I agonized over what to do with my old friend and decided to park it while it was still salvageable. My life had been changed by that old car and I was not going back to the bicycle! Before I knew it I was driving a 1953 Ford which was faster and had a radio. The cycle of needs started all over again. Eventually the '47 was sold to a man who had an engine from a wrecked pickup truck to go in it.
In 1964 I bought my first new car - a green Volkswagen Beetle. I traded nickel and dime needs for carefree driving, with a monthly payment book. The older generation did not approve of buying anything made in Japan or Germany so soon after World War II (19 years). Value and economy were the motivating factors for me and I do not regret my decision.
The adults in my life expressed another concern that, in the advent of an accident, I would not have a chance and would surely get killed. In 1965 I was side swiped by a 1954 Ford. My Volkswagen was repaired but the Ford was totaled. While in the Army I bought a green 1967 Volkswagen Beetle which I rolled over in Virginia Beach in 1969. The lessons I learned from all of this are these:
1. Green Volkswagens are very bad luck for me and even with a payment book the needs never stop.
2. All machines have a designed life span that can be extended with proper use and regular maintenance checks or greatly shortened by abuse. The human body is governed by similar rules in spite of the gallant efforts of medical science to keep us going beyond old and ugly.
3. I suspect I have sent several dozen insurance agents' kids to college but none of them bother to send me Christmas cards or thanks!
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