Come to find out, all these 'would be' issues were no match for an acetylene torch, a Sears and Roebuck stick welder, and another four '57's (gotta have parts, right?). All the fabricating was about finished, and attention had turned to the engine. My Mom, whose interest for this family racing effort definitely lacked considerable passion, had agreed to take the 283's cylinder heads to J A C K ' S for shaving. And, me and my best friend would be going, too!
If you live, or lived, in the coastal Carolinas, then or now, and consider yourself a race fan OR a car nut and you don't know who, what or where Jack's is...............well, "under a rock" is a phrase that comes to mind. Mr. Jack Ellis is our version of Smokey Yunick, and operated an automotive machine shop in Whiteville, NC. Still does. He built lots of race engines for most of our competitors, but for some reason, my dad was convinced he could build his own.........even better! Jack's machine shop has expanded, over the years, but in the summer of 1966, it was a small mint green-painted cinder-block building with a shingled "A" roof. For some curious reason, Jack's Motor Parts (its current official name) is located right on the edge of a cypress swamp, Spanish moss and everything. If it was in Louisiana they'd probably call it a bayou. Black still water and cypress knees border Jack's shop...........the "Water boy" could have been filmed there.
There was a crankshaft grinder, that I could see through the open garage door, that day, and boring machines, and stacks of heads, and junked and rusted cranks scattered everywhere. The dirt surrounding the building, and in the building had this black sedimentary layer..........years of oil and grease and oil dry and regular dirt and all of it stomped together forming an automotive generated top soil.........it was beautiful. Mr. Jack, meanwhile, adorned with a machinist apron, met my mom and gingerly got the heads out of our car's trunk, all the while assuring us that he had been properly instructed by my dad, as to what was to be done to the heads.
Did I mention that on the shop's small spit of land, before it fell into the swamp, there was a small JUNKYARD? As many old cars as they could muster, most with their hoods off, an obvious sign the engine was out and probably in some form of repair......in the cinder-block building...but some of them looked like they had been there awhile. Flat tires....no tires......sitting on blocks.........no rear end..........no front ends...........it WAS a special sight! Actually there was really just a path that wound its way through the junkyard to the garage door of the shop.
BUT................and this is a BIG............BUT..................as we had driven up to Jack's, way before even getting out of the car.................I had spied.....................A GOLD AND BLACK #12 '56 FORD LATE MODEL THAT I HAD SEEN RACE AT THE LOCAL DIRT TRACKS...........and it was JUNKED!! I KNEW where I was headed, just as soon as possible.................RIGHT! After it was all over, my mom swore that Mr. Jack had warned......................"boys watch out for that dog....................." If he DID say anything, I sure never heard it, nor was I actually listening.........I was on a mission, with my best friend bringing up the rear.
I was THIS close to #12, when...............flying through the 1966-summer-cypress-swamp-air............were these HUGE canine fangs...........with a black and tan German Shepherd connected to 'um! Super Fido had been quiet as a church mouse, until we were right on him............he was smart........then the chase WAS on. I spun around, at a drop dead run, flew past my friend, who tried the same maneuver but ran dead smack into the side of a light green '58 Chevrolet, falling down in the process. You know what they say........."the Good Lord looks after little boys chasing junked race cars......"and HE certainly did that day......Fido's chain ran out...........at the last second. Those big white teeth were about as close as you're ever gonna want to be to an irate A-1 junkyard dog, all the while, superbly performing his appointed duty.
That was as close as we got to the old Ford, and after it was all over, I did notice, in the midst of the junkyard, a wooden box with a "beware of dog" message scribbled in very small print. I returned to Jack's in 2004...........I was building a race car and needed the master's touch. We both were 40 years older, and I reminded Mr. Jack of the dog story. He remembered. The junkyard and the cypress trees and the little green building are all still there, along with a new steel building.........but I couldn't find the old Ford late model.....or Fido.
-Bobby
email: lefthander00@hotmail.com
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