The demise of MY 3-CAR COLLECTION
At one point in my years, I lived in Burlington, IA. I had a couple of Studebakers I’d “collected” and had taken the ’51 Land Cruiser to a dealership for service. Began talking to one of the salesmen while I waited. Usual, “I used to have one o’ them thar things” talk.
A month or so later, same salesman called me. “We just traded for a ’63 Hawk with a bad hood. You can have it for $400.” I brow beat my wife (of the day) and drove it home. Had front disk brakes with the Flight-O-Matic shifter between the seats.
The hood wouldn’t latch—was only held down by the hook. But I drove it that way for a while. Then one day I was in need of some loot. There was a guy between Keokuk and Ft.Madison who was kind of collector. You could see his ‘collection’ from the highway, setting in a field. Lots of Studebakers, so I figured maybe he was as much of a Stude ‘nut’ as I. Stopped and offered him the 3 I had.
“I’ll be over tomorrow to look at the other 2. Not a bad looking Hawk, ‘cept fer that hood.”
The next day, he and his son stopped by, inspected my ‘collection’. They all ran and drove and he bought ‘em. Didn’t argue over my asking price, just bought ‘em. Paid cash. Hauled ‘em away to his field. When I’d drive by on my way to Keokuk there they were, looking at me, looking angry because I sold ‘em.
A couple of years later, was driving by his farm. All 3 cars where still there, grumping at me. I had a few bucks to spare at the time and a different, much more easily bamboozled wife, so I decided to stop and see if any were for sale.
A lady came to the door. “Hi,” I said. “Is your husband home?”
Terse, “Nope. He died.”
“Well, I sold him some of those cars, a few years back. I’m wondering if any of those Studebakers are for sale?”
Very terse, “Nope.” Started to close the door.
“Do you mind if I look at ‘em?”
“You c’n look, but I ain’t sellin’ ‘em!” Closed the door.
I walked through the weeds and brambles. All 3 of them sat there, tires mostly flat, sinking into the ground, rust starting in the usual places. I opened the doors. Interiors had begun to rot from the sun. I touched the cloth on the ’51 Land Cruiser. It cracked at my touch. Steering wheels cracked. Seat seams on the Hawk beginning to split. Truly sad. Yet, they could all have probably been saved, had someone taken the time and had the money. And the desire.
Just then, a kid, maybe 12, walked up. “Mom wanted me to ask you to come inside before you leave. She wants to talk to ya.”
“She gonna sell me one of these Studebakers?”
“No way. They’re mine.”
They’re YOURS???”
“Yep, it was in the will. Dad left ‘em to me. All these cars.” He made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the entire “collection”, probably 25 cars, most of them in worse condition than the Studebakers I’d sold him. “Don’t take nothin’ off’n ‘em.” He turned and went back into the house.
After I looked at some of the “other” cars in the “collection”, I stickered my way back to the house and knocked on the back door.
Same lady came to the door, unlatched the screen and invited me in. “Have a seat there,” motioning me to a kitchen chair. “I wasn’t trying to be mean, but ya have to understand. My husband loved every one of them cars. After work every day, he’d go out there at night with a flashlight and sit in ‘em. A different one every night. Sometimes run a long cord out to ‘em, put on a charger and listen to the radios. He’d sit there, thinking about what each one needed to be “resurrected”, he called it. Then come in the house and write all that stuff down. I’ve still got the papers he wrote. When we made out our wills, he’d made the lawyer write that I got the farm but the cars would all go to Don, our son. I couldn’t touch ‘em.”
“What’s Don gonna do with ‘em?”
“Nothin’. He hates ‘em.”
“HATE ‘EM?”
“Never looks at ‘em. Says they’re piles o’ junk. But they belonged to his Dad. And he can’t get the idea through his head that he’ll NEVER be able to fix ‘em, even if he wanted to—which he don’t. So they just set there. I CAN’T sell ‘em and he WON’T sell ‘em.”
“Sad.”
“Yes it is. But that’s the way it is. People stop here all the time, wanting to buy one or another. But Don is just as mule-headed as his Dad. I’m sure that someday, he’ll decide to sell ‘em. But until that day….” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged her shoulders.
I got up, thanked her for her time and for letting me look at the “collection”. Drove away.
“Didja buy one?” asked my wife.
“Nope. Not for sale.”
She sighed, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. And smiled.
A few years later, was again driving past that place. There were only the charred remnants of a house and NO cars. I stopped at the next farm house and knocked.
“Whatever happened to the place down the road?”
“Burned down a year or so ago. The county got it condemned and a junk yard bought the cars. As far as I know, crushed ‘em all. They were nothing but rusty ol’ junk, anyway, ya know. Don got married and his Mom moved to Ft.Madison.”
So there it was. The entire “collection” got crushed, including “my” cars. I guess that makes OUR cars worth more today. But it does seem kinda sad. SOMEone coulda saved ‘em.
And, I’ve often wondered…even in their present condition, were "MY CARS" still angry with ME for selling them?
Oh well…..
John
We've got to quit saying, 
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