#he could have had a vintage lever fill I mean

[penelopemiles]

Most upsetting thing about Gotham Knights so far is that they didn’t give Harvey Dent a fountain pen

[yungimmortals]

phone numbers | jaime (ft. risa)

date: december 26, 2020

summary: a long-overdue phone call, a heavy dose of salt in an old wound, and a very low battery

An unknown number flashed across his screen. Never one to pick up the phone unless he absolutely had to (and definitely not one to pick up when he didn’t recognize the caller), Jaime let it go to voicemail, tossing his phone onto his bed. 

Swiveling in his desk chair, he spin in a full circle before returning his focus to  the project he had been working on since getting back to his apartment earlier that evening. Christmas with Katie’s family had been fun; now it was time for Jaime to recharge. Restoring a vintage typewriter -- Jaime’s Christmas present to himself -- was the perfect thing to do. In the last hour, he had polished it, ridding the typewriter of years of rust and grime. All the type-levers were in place, all the knobs and buttons in working condition. Now it was time to work on the carriage lever and the platen, time to get the machine ready for writing. 

Dismantling his typewriter was a delicate process, interrupted again by the ringing of his phone. “Where is it?” He mumbled, turning is his chair and taking a dive at the bed when he spotted his phone. Snatching it up, he recognized the same number that had called earlier but was saved the trouble of a debate as to whether or not he should answer it when his screen went dark once more. A moment later, a voicemail notification flashed across his screen.

Curiosity piqued, Jaime unlocked his phone, raising it to his ear to listen to the voicemail. The last voice he expected to hear drifted out of the phone’s speakers and he dropped it in surprise. 

Jaime, it’s me. I need to talk to you. I hope this is still your number.

Without hesitation, he returned the call. There was one ring, then two, then three. Jaime bounced his leg up and down before spinning around in his desk chair, his stomach a pit of nerves. As the line continued to ring, he was almost positive he had imagined the voicemail. But then there was an audible click, followed by the sound of his sister’s voice.

“So this is your number. Rowan’s handwriting is absolute shit, I couldn’t tell if that last number was a seven or a four. Can’t believe she wants to go to art school with that chicken scratch.”

“Risa?”  

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, I, er. That is-”

His sister’s laughter sounded tinny, far away. “Jaime, relax. Oh, and Merry Christmas. Did you get our card?”

Jaime switched the call to speaker phone and placed his phone on his desk. He stared at it blankly before scrubbing his face with his hands. “Card?”

“Yeah, Ro made you a Christmas card in her risography workshop. She’s building her portfolio for college but I’m sure she told you that since you talk, like, all the time.” Risa sounded bitter as she spoke, changing the subject quickly. “Anyway, I need to talk to you about something. Is this a good time?”

In eight years, his middle sister had never once called of her own volition. Even convincing her to be a part of Jaime and Rowan’s ‘family phone calls’, had taken a few years of their littlest sister badgering her. Now Risa was calling and it sounded important and Jaime couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He must have been silent for too long, he realized, hearing his sister clear her throat.

“Jay, if you’re busy, just tell me. I’ll find another time,” she said, though from her tone, Jaime could tell that if they didn’t talk about what was on her mind now, they likely never would.

“No! I mean, no, I’m not busy. I was just-- yeah, no, I’m here. What-- what’s up?” Jaime pushed his typewriter to the side before rummaging through his desk drawer for a notebook and pen (just in case he needed to take notes). He chuckled as Risa told him to buckle up, already welcoming the familiarity with which she was speaking to him, no matter how strange it felt.

“This isn’t what I’m calling about but I might as well tell you while we’re here. Dad’s sick. He said you cursed him or some shit, but it’s all bull. He went off the deep end a few years ago. Totally cuckoo. I figured you didn’t know, since you and Ro have your stupid agreement to never mention Charles to each other. Says he’s seeing things. Monsters and shit. Which I would call bull, but I remember that creepy guy. You know, the one waiter at the Dog & Pony that would always stare at you and Mom when we all went for dinner? He only had one eye. I don’t mean like an eyepatch. I mean one freaking eye, right in the center of his head. Don’t know if you ever noticed that, but I did.” Now that Risa had started talking, it seemed she couldn’t stop. “And that’s not the last time I saw something or someone weird like that. There’s a girl who works at the nature center in the park and I swear, Jay. I freaking swear that she melts into the trees. She’s a dryad right? I got lunch with your aunt last week and she filled me in on some stuff. I don’t know how she got in touch with us. Said something about your dad, I don’t remember. But, anyway, we got lu-”

“My aunt?” Jaime interrupted, feeling guilty for doing so, but not seeing where he could get a word in edgewise if he waited for her to pause.

“Oh, shit. Wait, there’s a picture, did I mention a picture? Before I forget. It’s with your card. I was digging through some of Mom’s trail crew stuff in the attic a while back, looking for her old boots, and I found it. It says ‘David’ with a heart next to it on the back. That was his name, right? Your dad?”

Jaime blinked, surprised at both the abrupt subject change and the mention of his father. He didn’t want the subject of his aunt to drop but the photograph won his curiosity. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“Okay, so you’ll see it, but, like, it’s totally weird. There’s a lens flare on it but it’s, like, just across your dad. Kinda ruins the whole picture, you can’t see him at all. It’s like when you try to take a photo of the sun. Mom looks beautiful though, but she always did. I think they were at Otter Cove, and I know that was one of your favorite trails.”

Like trying to photograph the sun. Jaime almost laughed. Risa had no idea how close to the truth she was. Which reminded him, “You had lunch with my aunt?”

“Dude, yeah. And she’s, like, so cool. If you’re related to so many cool people -- myself and Ro included, obviously -- how did you turn out like this?” 

He could hear Risa laugh on the other line and just rolled his eyes. He glanced down at his notebook where he’d written a collection of words: cursed, Cyclops, dryads in Acadia? The latter was underlined several times, whether from surprise or excitement, Jaime couldn’t remember. He realized his sister had started speaking again. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” 

“I was saying, if you were paying attention, that we went to Geddy’s -- that veg place on Main? -- for lunch and she was telling me about some fancy neo-classical city? New Athens or some shit like that, I think. In New York. Is that where you live? Ro told me you were like, weirdly into Greek mythology one time. But honestly, that tracks with some of the stuff I’ve seen. Hey, how come your aunt was looking for me, not you? She said something about mist but it was. like, not even a foggy day. We could see out over the harbor. Crystal clear.”

“The Mist,” Jaime correctly automatically, then pinched the bridge of his nose. The list in his notebook grew longer as their call stretched on. “I don’t know,” he admitted, in response to Risa’s question about his aunt. “Did she tell you her name?”

“Artemis? Which I was like hello, weird, since I was literally just thinking about you and your Greek mythology phase. I asked if she was David’s sister and she said ‘if that’s what he’s calling himself now’. Do estranged siblings run in your side of the family or something?”

At that, Jaime made a choking sound, staring at his phone. The resulting crow of laughter from his sister made it clear that she’d been expecting, no, hoping for that reaction. 

“Just messing with you, Jay. Relax. Anyway. She’s got this, like, wild grrl gang of hikers that travel the country? Gave me a pamphlet, told me to consider it. She said I could tell Rowan too, but when I did, Ro didn’t seem to care at all. She’s just got art school on the brain, I think. Your aunt had told me that would happen, said that the Mist was thicker around our sweet baby sister. But, uh, do you know what the Mist is? I’m, like, pretty sure you do since you corrected me a minute ago.”

“I-”

“Yeah that’s what I thought. So anyway, Aunt Artemis said you’re a demigod. Guess your dad’s name isn’t really David, huh? Last I checked, there’s no Greek god of boring dad names. Care to fill me in? Is that why I’ve seen some weird, like, mythological creatures around the harbor when we were growing up? Oh and Grandma Hana says hi.”

A distressed sound escaped Jaime’s lips. He had forgotten his sister’s habit of bouncing from subject to subject and here it was, smacking him in the face with more new information than he could handle at the moment. Christmas wishes had been exchanged with his grandmother the day before, so he didn’t have to worry about acknowledging that topic, thankfully. His brain was working in overdrive and he could practically feel Risa’s impatience, the longer he was silent.

“Jaime,” she prompted. 

He sighed, massaging his temples as he stared down at his phone. “His name isn’t David, it’s Apollo. Artemis’ brother. They aren’t named after the Greek gods, they are the Greek gods. So yes, that makes me a demigod. And it sounds like...you can probably see through the Mist. At least a little more than most mortals.”

“Holy shit. And you never thought ‘hey maybe I should tell my sister this super freaking weird but also totally cool thing about me’? What the shit, Jaime!”

He opened his mouth to tell her that he hadn’t known until after he left, until after he read the letter their mother had left for him, but Risa was steamrolling ahead.

“Wait...wait, so that was the Artemis? Your aunt is the Artemis? And she- and she invited me to join her immortal Hunt?” He heard a muffled shriek, like she had covered the receiver with her hand. A small smile spread across his face. “Well, I’m saying yes...obviously.”

“Okay, hold on a second there. That’s a big decision, don’t you think you shou-”

“Oh no, no. I’m going to stop you right there. You don’t get to play the big brother card here, Jay. You don’t get to keep secrets for years and then tell me I need to think about accepting an offer from a goddess. And don’t say some shit about me looking after Rowan. She doesn’t need anyone to look after her. You’d know that if you were here. Honestly, she does a better job looking after me than I do her. Shit, wait. Does that mean Dad’s not crazy? Did you really make all those people sick all the time? Did you...make Mom sick? Isn’t Apollo the god of healing?”

“I wasn’t playing the big brother card!” He protested weakly. As she continued, Jaime blanched. Several times. First at the mention of his absence, then at the mention of Charles’ theories, and again at the mention of their mother. “I’m sorry,” he started, hoping Risa understood that he was apologizing for leaving. They would have more time to unpack that later, he figured. 

"Charles is definitely still crazy. I didn’t make all those people sick. Mom either. I, uh, I only did it once. Made someone sick, I mean. It was a boy that bullied me at school during the years Mom was sick and Charles wouldn’t listen to me about it. One day the kid was beating me up and hitting me and, and I, I don’t know what happened. I pushed him and pushed? I don’t know, energy? At him, and I gave him the chicken pox or something, at least I think that’s what the school said. Chicken pox,” he scoffed, ducking his head, despite the fact that Risa couldn’t see him. “He’s the god of many things. Music, the arts, the sun. Healing, yeah, but plague and illness is the flip side of that.”

“Like the plague arrows he shot at the Greeks. Before you say anything, yes, I’ve read the Iliad. And The Song of Achilles, which, if you haven’t read it, you have to.” As if realized she’d gotten off track, Risa was quiet for a moment. Jaime was thankful she didn’t push him on the subject of his powers; he wasn’t sure what he would have said if she had. When his sister spoke again, she sounded farther away, her voice detached. “Artemis told me there are other children of Apollo. You have other family.”

It wasn’t a question, it was an accusation -- that was clear. When Jaime answered, he sounded tired. “I do, yeah.” Though his sister couldn’t see it, his expression was one of regret. “But it’s, it’s not like that, Ris.”

“I didn’t ask what it was like,” she snapped. After a moment of tense silence, he could hear her sigh. “I’m going to contact Artemis. Learn as much about your world as she’ll tell me. And then I’m going to join the Hunt.”

With a click, the line went dead. 

Jaime stared at his phone in silence until the screen darkened, battery dead as well. He heaved a sigh, detangling himself from his desk chair to plug his phone into the cord on his nightstand to charge. So much for recharging, he thought to himself, knowing his own battery was dangerously low. Exhaling a groan, Jaime sunk onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling once more. To the constellations on his ceiling, he murmured, “That went about as well as it could have, all thing considered.”

[themurphyzone]

Oneshot: Fashion Disaster

This one is very light on plot. It’s just stupid stuff happening XD

The entire class was stuck in Principal Milder’s office after the latest Murphy’s Law incident left their clothes half-soaked, half-eaten by moths. Milo’s sweatervest resembled less of a sweatervest and more like outdated fringe that was more reminiscent of square dancing parties. He shrugged it off though. He still had 22 at home. If Diogee showed up, maybe he’d bring one with him. 

“Right, so the Lost and Found box is being brought to the office now,” Principal Milder explained. ��Since nobody has ever claimed lost items since the school’s founding, it’s doubtful they’d be claimed now so feel free to take whatever fits.”

“Just think of all the inspiration I could get from these outfits!” Lydia nudged Melissa, who groaned. 

“Lydia, if it’s anything like your last bout of inspiration, I would really appreciate not being used as a pin cushion for dresses with poofy sleeves,” Melissa replied. 

Lydia pouted. “You’re no fun!” 

“Can’t be as bad as when my mom first made the flannel outfits for the Lumberzacks,” Zack said, shuddering at the memory. “She called every band member over to take their measurements and after that Max snuck into my room and broke a cassette tape that had Love Handel on it. He still owes me a new one.” 

“Zack, nobody uses cassettes anymore,” Melissa said. 

Milo shrugged. “Vintage Sounds of Disaster can’t be beat. There is something very soothing and retro about cassette tapes.”

Zack frowned, crossing his legs only to uncross them moments later. “He still owes me. Okay, when’s that box getting here? Jeans and water don’t mix.”

“Or white for that matter,” Milo said, pointing to Melissa’s jacket, which was almost see through around the sleeves. Amanda hadn’t fared so well, but Milo was able to provide her with a thick blanket that she had completely hidden herself in. 

Poor girl had trouble handling Murphy’s Law when the problem occurred over an extended period of time instead of being a quick fix. 

Bradley’s hair flopped in his eyes, and he tossed it back in annoyance. “This reminds me painfully of when Mort was hosing the delicious stickiness of Carla off me. I’ll never forget the cold but comforting caress of her cream which tasted of springtime and strawberries, the sharp tang which hid a beautiful smile of orange sherbet, the vibrations as her thick cream poured out when I pulled her lever-”

Everyone slowly inched away from him. 

Even Principal Milder looked disturbed. “Maybe we should stage an intervention,” she muttered. 

“At least Mrs. Murawski spares us the details,” Melissa said awkwardly. “Most of the time.” 

The lost and found box arrived, wheeled in by Mr. Drako. “I found a few things from the Halloween party of 2007. You know, the one where Nolan got stuck in the apple bobbing tub.”

Principal Milder snickered. “Believe me, I still have the pictures. I can resort to blackmail if he ever dares challenge my supreme authority again.” 

Mort shifted nervously. “I think the creepy aura went from mottled black and purple gas to multi-tentacled ethereal monsters seeking to devour us all.”

“I would like it to devour me now, because that box is filled to the brim with gaudy Hawaiian shirts,” Zack gulped. 

Milo grinned. “It’s not so bad. I mean, does this overcoat remind you of anyone?” He held up a large, dark green coat that had obviously gone out of style. 

“Isn’t that Cavendish’s?” Melissa asked. “You know, never mind. I don’t want to know what your time traveling uncles were doing that resulted in one of their articles of clothing winding up here.” 

“Well, I’m sure he won’t mind me borrowing it,” Milo shrugged. “Oh, hey! Bell bottom pants! Anyone want these?” 

Everyone cowered and shook their heads from the hideous monstrosity that was the yellow and pink floral patterned bell bottom pants. Lydia swooned and fainted. 

“Okay, finders keepers rule applies here then,” Milo sing-songed, moving into the nearby bathroom to change. 

“Wait, he’s not-” 

“I think he is,” Melissa smirked. “I am so getting pictures of this later. Remind me to get Dakota’s number from Milo. There is no way he’s missing out on this fashion disaster.” 

“Cavendish, you gotta see this! Least we know your coat is in good hands now!” Dakota laughed. 

Cavendish looked up from his grumbling. “This better not be another memo, or whatever you call that ridiculous Internet thing.” His hand flew to his mouth in shock when he viewed the picture on the phone. “Dakota, my coat...Milo...that color....” 

“It’s hilarious!” Dakota snickered. “Right? Maybe I should try the bell bottom look.” 

Cavendish snatched the car keys off the desk. “This is a complete disaster, Dakota! Stop making a mockery of it! That boy’s outfit is a mess that we’ll have to fix now!”

“Wait, it’s the middle of the day. He’s still in class!” 

“I’ll claim it’s for a medical emergency!” 

[biofunmy]

Back to Basics for a Designer Whose Business Got Too Tight

Scott Sternberg would prefer you not call him “quirky,” as has happened many times before. It’s “a word people like to use for me a lot,” Mr. Sternberg said, “which I don’t love.”

So we will not repeat the offense, further than to note that, while Mr. Sternberg may not be quirky, there he was, in all his Peter Panish youthfulness, with his penchant for stripy shirts and Polaroid film, seated in a geodesic dome of his own design as vintage monitors played the funny little videos he creates, ruminating about utopia.

If Mr. Sternberg has a quirk — let’s say for a minute that he does — it is for ginning up not just clothes (which he does) or videos (which he does) or even geodesic domes (which he has, for his label’s first-ever pop-up, in the SoHo branch of the furniture seller Design Within Reach), but also an entire world in which all of these things come together, with its own rhythms, cadence, colors and meticulously designed aesthetic.

Mr. Sternberg, 44, is what is usually called a fashion designer, insofar as he is in the business of making and selling clothes. If you know his name, it is most likely that you remember his former label Band of Outsiders, which, from 2004 to 2015, had a profound impact on the way stylish American men dressed, squeezing them into slim shirts and skinny ties and Sperry Top-Siders: prep-school style in quotation marks, self-aware and self-effacing.

Mr. Sternberg thinks of himself less as a designer or a creative director than as a world builder. He and Band of Outsiders parted company, and his new brand, Entireworld (aha!), is less exclusive and less niche; a collection, essentially, of basics. It is clothing considered from the bottom up — one if its founding garments was a pair of underpants.

Now with a few more staples to round it out, Mr. Sternberg hopes for nothing less than to dress the entire world. A year into its life, the question is: Can he?

The Entireworld world, a fantasyland in Disney colors (Disney World is an acknowledged influence), is a cheerful, welcoming one. Mr. Sternberg’s Band of Outsider tailored jackets could once run $1,800 or more; Entireworld’s T-shirts are $32.

The same sensibility — Mr. Sternberg’s cinematic adorable — animates both. Many of the same friends who posed pro bono for guerrilla Polaroid ad campaigns are now in Instagram videos, singing, mugging or prat-falling: Jason Schwartzman, Kirsten Dunst, Andrew Garfield, Spike Jonze.

Over a series of interviews beginning in April 2018, at its inception, and continuing through Entireworld’s first year, Mr. Sternberg explained his vision of this world and how it was built on the ashes of its predecessor. In so doing, he offered a view into the tectonic shifts in the fashion industry, the instability of the high-fashion, runway model he left behind and the traditional gatekeepers who perpetuate it.

Mr. Sternberg had been featured in every fashion magazine, won the industry’s top awards, hosted Anna Wintour and Kanye West at his fashion shows. Still, he said at a public conversation at Design Within Reach with Deborah Needleman (the former T Magazine editor), “the fashion system can feel like jail.”

Band of Outsiders did $15 million in wholesale business its height, but Mr. Sternberg, overstretched and under-resourced, who sought and received investment, couldn’t keep up with the immense pressure to grow. He found out that his last hope for additional funding passed on the morning he opened the first Band of Outsiders shop in the United States, in SoHo. (The first-ever store had opened in Tokyo.)

He received a loan from CLCC, a Belgian fashion fund, for $2 million, but soon clashed with his new backers. Ultimately, Mr. Sternberg’s company defaulted on the loan and Mr. Sternberg himself walked away from the Band. CLCC assumed ownership, and Band of Outsiders continues without him, with a new design team in place. Mr. Sternberg called their first collection “a disaster.”

The challenges of designing and producing collection after collection of men’s and women’s wear are significant, and Band of Outsiders eventually grew to encompass several lines. The collections were well received but also vulnerable to the whims of trend and timeliness, and the vagaries of inconsistent production.

Even Band’s signature slim cuts were in part a self-fulfilling prophecy: After an initial run of shirts were (correctly) snug, other orders arrived from the factories in similar style. “Everything just came in a little bit small,” Mr. Sternberg said. “I’m not kidding.”

Band’s cuts — like those of Thom Browne, whose shrunken suits were a more conceptual foil to Mr. Sternberg’s easier Americana — helped convince curious young men to embrace a snugger silhouette. But that fit made democratizing and expanding the brand nearly impossible. In any case, high-fashion esotericism had never been Mr. Sternberg’s intention.

“That’s just not me,” he said. “That’s not how I see my legacy.”

If fashion is by definition exclusive, Entireworld is inclusive; fashion segments the world into groups of like-minded (and like-dressed) cohorts, but everyone wears underwear. In a video announcing the creation of Entireworld last year, Mr. Sternberg faced the camera and, as his face dissolved into a montage of stylish men and women (Mick Jagger, Sade, The Dude), acknowledged his past failings and vowed to take a different tack.

“I started thinking about what it would be like to create something more democratic this time, without compromising anything about the design or quality,” he said. “About the stuff we live in every day.”

But now, instead of staging fashion shows and courting the fashion press, instead of depending on the patronage of department stores and boutiques, Mr. Sternberg’s Entireworld is sold primarily from its own website.

Mr. Sternberg runs the entire business out of a bland commercial office building in the Koreatown neighborhood of Los Angeles, from where he conjures a utopia only he can see. He is the man behind the curtain. Entireworld, and the thousand tiny windows onto it offered on Instagram posts and its cheeky, sunny website, is Oz.

Of course, the thing about Oz is that the man behind the curtain is pulling the levers, working to convince you to buy a $32 T-shirt from him, rather than a $10 three-pack from Hanes. He will tell you that his feels better, fits better and wears better; he will not be wrong.

But a basic is a basic, and to many, the difference is hard to parse. Mr. Sternberg is under pressure to make Entireworld so appealing that even its basics have ineffable magic that coaxes credits cards out of wallets.

Mr. Sternberg has to capture that market with less of the support he once enjoyed. “Have we captured the attention of traditional media outlets the way I expected to, the way I did at Band? Eh,” he said, giving a grunt of not-really. He has skipped the fashion shows and presentations he once staged. As a result, Entireworld has made a smaller splash.

But those who love it — those who may be rising to replace the old gatekeepers — have vouched for it. “Basically have not taken this sweatshirt off since I got it last week,” Leandra Medine, better known as the Man Repeller, posted to her Instagram not long after the label’s debut.

At Design Within Reach, Mr. Sternberg had his first real-world test, hanging racks of Entireworld clothes among Alexander Girard dolls and Man Ray chess sets and Hans Wegner chairs. Pegged to New York’s NYCxDesign programming, the Entireworld shop stayed open for 11 days, and customers came away with hot-pink sweatsuits and cotton sweaters.

“It was definitely something we had never done,” said Kim Phillips, the head of public relations and events for Design Within Reach. “It was sticking my neck out there for sure.”

Mr. Sternberg called the experiment gratifying. “An idea like this, I really believe more than ever has a place, especially when I see the sales and repeat sales,” he said. “I think the real challenge is — I know the real challenge is — that the amount of capital it’ll take to get where we need to getis formidable.”

To start Entireworld, Mr. Sternberg raised $1.5 million from a group of private investors, and he has sought further investment to grow and scale it. Within its first year, he said, the company has sold more than three quarters of its initial inventory and reached more than $1 million in sales without paying for any advertising.

Numbers like these, while impressive, mean Entireworld is dwarfed by many of its competitors, limited by finite capital but not in an ideal position to attract more. “There’s a real disconnect,” Mr. Sternberg said, between his values and the goals of the investors he is hoping to attract.

“Investors want a return, and they want a return in a certain amount of time,” he said. “I understand all these things, clearly, but they still don’t change my view that sticking to my guns in terms of what this is and what it should be shouldn’t bow too much to the pressure of what investors think it should be right now.”

And while the signs have been good — Ms. Phillips said that she and Mr. Sternberg were talking about the pop-up traveling to other Design Within Reach locations, and sales continue to climb online — the economic reality of keeping a fashion business afloat is a chilly reality intruding into utopia. The world isn’t Entireworld, yet. But Mr. Sternberg said there had been no question of not trying his hand in the rag trade again.

“Unfortunately not,” he said with a laugh. “I am an entrepreneur by birth. I am at my most ebullient, excited, energetic when there’s a big challenge and a huge bucket that needs these ideas to fill it out. It’s painful. It’s not easy. There’s just this unexplainable, probably illogical urge to do this stuff.”

Sahred From Source link Fashion and Style

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[daemonvols]

Chapter Two

Two Mowers and a Funeral

I have my morning routines as well.

    My alarm clock beeps at me starting at six in the morning. Most mornings, I bruise the snooze button until nearly seven. I dog-ear the book to the page I’d fallen asleep over and get up to have my shower and dress for the day. I’m rarely seen outside of the CPF, so I don’t have to dress up for anybody. Jeans and a clean button-down blouse would satisfy even Grandma Rose, may she rest in peace.

    Breakfast is whatever I can grab and/or cook from the fridge to the microwave in a hurry. I loathe cold cereals with milk. I have the television in the sitting room angled so that I can see it and it is on by seven-fifteen for the news. Then I check to see that neither Derek nor any of the “friendlier” ghosts have been in the house overnight to scatter papers, knock over anything not nailed down, or, worst case, leave me notes.

    With my second cup of coffee that morning in April, as for most mornings before that, I sat down at my desk in the front room/office to get in some more research on the Baumann-Farmer history before Varney and Trumbull came to make their mess.

    I am grateful that my ancestors from the last two centuries all had anal personalities. Otherwise, I would have no clue as to who I was or where my family came from or how they did business with the cantankerous members of the CPF’s Board of Directors.  It was, in fact, was a happy accident that Grandpa Dov and I were on a clearing-out mission in the upper loft of the carriage house one summer and found diaries, ledgers and piles of official papers with handwritten notes scrawled on them. As a result of surviving the dust and cobwebs and Grandma Rose’s kvetching over the mess we made in her house, I have a reasonable idea of my family tree going back to Jacob Baumann when he arrived in Upstate New York.

    His family lived in the confusion that was 19th century Austro-Hungary. They were bakers and prosperous for their time and town. Or so I surmise, because they could afford to send Jacob to rabbinical school.  I do not read enough Hebrew or Yiddish to translate all Jacob’s papers from home, but Grandpa Dov assures me that Jacob not only graduated from the school, but did so with high honors with special honors mentioned in the pilpul or disputation skills.

Still, for all the lauds and celebration of his knowledge and insight, Jacob lacked one quality of a successful rabbi: he didn’t like people. Not the living ones, anyway.

    We found no documents to explain how he came to America or how he ended up in upstate New York. However, his skills and willingness to work alone proved invaluable soon enough. In short, he talked himself and his heirs into a permanent position as the first gravedigger and caretaker at the CPF. Furthermore, he made sure his heirs to the last generation would retain the position. Grandpa Dov told me that was Jacob’s pilpul training: he could argue anyone into almost anything, which also explains his marriage to a well-to-do Syracuse banker’s daughter and their subsequent eight children.

    That morning in April, I had exhausted one more Internet site in the search for how Jacob’ immigration to the U.S., all in vain, when the office phone, a vintage 1950s dial model, rang.

    “Sayresville Cemetery,” I said into the receiver.

    “Truman Plutarch here,” wheezed a man’s voice. “I’m checking to make sure all is arranged for my mother’s funeral today.” I stifled a groan.  

The Plutarchs were the last of the moneyed families who built Sayresville. They paid for an addition to Section B in 1876 to bury their dead. Except for a few interlopers, including Derek, the Plutarchs were Section B. And this dutiful son had been calling every day since his mother’s death “to make sure all is arranged.” And I assured him every day that all would be prepared according to the detailed arrangements he had “requested” when his ninety-nine-year-old mother Eulalie went comatose in a Syracuse hospital at the beginning of March.

On the positive note, the family paid in advance.

    “It will all be done the way you requested, Mr. Plutarch,” I said.

    “You mean the way I paid for it to be done.”

    Touchy, touchy. “As you wish, Mr. Plutarch.”

    The whine then roar of the CPF’s mowers, following by the backhoe chugging came through the front windows. I raised my eyes in a silent Thank You so I could honestly say, “I need to meet with the diggers and other groundskeepers now, Mr. Plutarch. I’m sure you will be satisfied with the arrangements.”

    “Will she face the east? She told me she wanted to be buried facing east.”

    “That’s part of what I want to confirm with the diggers right away.”

    “Then I will leave you to your job.” He said the word job with all the disdain of someone who never held one.

Truman Plutarch had to be the one to hang up first.

    I had to move fast to catch both Varney and Trumbull and, with any luck, whomever the Death Services International Union had sent to dig that day. Assuming they would do their jobs as directed is like assuming anything. It makes an ass…well, you know the saying. And I had to be diplomatic when I checked up on them.

    During my grandparents’ tenure in the CPF, the gravediggers and maintenance crews in the county organized and closed shop on all cemetery and funeral services into the DSIU, a sub-union of another service union which was a sub-union of a national union. That development altered my family’s position from wearing our bodies out doing all the work to calling the union office and requesting their bodies to take over the manual labor side of the business.

This also created problems with the Board, as one might expect. Grandpa Dov fought for three years in and out of court with the CPF Board and/or the union to keep our house and pay after the unionization, and there were still sour feelings on all sides. The DSIU objected to my family’s contract, but did little about it other than voice strong opposition.

The union and sub-union were and are even less supportive when I became the caretaker and sole specified employee of the CPF, not to mention a single woman with no use for a union membership. I paid them no dues and therefore was part of “management.” So, when I needed the grass mowed and graves dug then filled in, I called the union office and they grudgingly sent the required help. The diggers varied, but for mowers I always got Varney and Trumbull.

    Yes, those two mowed the grass. But, that said, they used neither care nor bags (G-d forbid I suggest they use rakes) to catch the clippings. Each time they had finished, I had a several-hour job to go through the grounds, wiping off and re-setting headstones. The cleaning I did not mind. It got me out of the office, away from the phone, and in the fresh air.

The men were something else.

    I found Varney wiping greasy hands on an oil-stained cloth at the equipment shed next to the Potter’s Field. Varney had always reminded me of an electric eel. He was narrow and pointy-headed. He slithered rather than walks and took a perverse delight in shocking people.

    “You might want to rethink that bra,” he greeted me. “Your nipples are sticking out.”

         “Good morning to you, too. Have the diggers started on the Plutarch grave?”

    He gestured with an elbow toward the empty shed. “You see the backhoe in here?”

    Maintaining the peace (that is, biting my tongue), I left him and jogged up over Section A’s hill. Next to the original oak tree, I could see the rumbling backhoe piercing the ground in Section B. Eulalie, the queen mother of the Plutarchs who wanted to be buried facing east. I studied what was left of Section B. Placing Eulalie so she could face east would put her grave perpendicular to the rest of the generations buried there and effectively short the grounds parallel to her relatives and cut off any one else using the Plutarchs’ section for their family burials. I have no proof aside from a strong suspicion, and my dealings with Truman, that Eulalie made her request with that exclusionary result in mind.

After a meningitis outbreak in the late 19th century, my several-times great grandfather Isaac (Jacob’s grandson) suggested that the Plutarchs erect a family mausoleum. Keep every Plutarch in the family house, so to speak. The patriarch at the time, Sampson B., sneered that the CPF had already allowed one squatter into “their plot” (Derek); a mausoleum would only free the surrounding ground and encourage more inferiors to bury their dead next to the Plutarch family. One could speculate that Sampson’s true motives had to more with the family’s gilded fortune taking a serious hit in the Depressions of 1893 and 1896, thereby prohibiting such an expense, but there is no documentary proof beyond Isaac’s inferring this in his ledger.

I stood a while on the hill and studying the marble array of weeping women and sheep with sad expressions that served for Plutarch headstones. Something sordid could be interpreted from the sheep, but I prefer not to believe the century-old gossip. The Plutarchs did as they pleased, always.

I wondered if Truman go so far to assert his authority as head of the family to stop the graveside service to open his mother’s coffin and verify that she was turned the right way around to “face” east. I prayed that he didn’t. The union regs probably would not allow for a one-hundred-eighty degree turn once the coffin lay atop the hydraulic supports, and things could get ugly if he pressed the point.

    But the grave digging had commenced in the right direction. The digger for Eulalie’s grave was a new man, at least to my distance-obstructed eyes. A John Deere baseball cap rode low over his eyes, so I could only make out a square chin and lips pressed together in concentration. He had good shoulders, though, and what looked like a flat belly under his black and red union t-shirt. I liked his hands: wide palms, thick fingers and gripping hard on the levers. His jeans fit in all the right places, too. If I didn’t have to keep a close watch on Varney and Trumbull, I could have stayed under the oak tree with a smile watching until he was done.

    Trumbull had finished Section G where children who predecease their parents used to be buried. He’d finished A and C as well and would ride the mower without a muffler (union regs wouldn’t let them – or me – replace the muffler for some reason) across the skirt to Section E. Then Varney would take over and the headstones would wobble.

    To look at, Trumbull was a perfect cube on legs. From a front view, his sides bulge out about four inches. From the side, it’s about the same. He always wore sweat-stained t-shirts one size too small and low-slung old blue jeans over cowboy boots. His head was as blocky as his body and wild with long kinky brown hair and a scruff of a brown beard. I made the mistake once of asking him how he liked the job.

    “Ain’t much to shout about,” he had admitted. “The clientele are all dead, but then, they don’t talk back, neither.” He gave me a smile that had reminded me to call my dentist for my next cleaning. “But I do like the ladies passing by!” He leaned forward over the mower and the San Andreas Fault bordered in black hair opened up over his jeans’ waistband.    

“You know most of those ‘ladies’ are middle school girls,” I said. “You know, jail bait.”

    Trumbull cackled. The only thing that could tickle him more is if the Fault erupted in natural gas.

    The morning of the Plutarch funeral, I watched him trade off with Varney. Rolling my eyes at the thought of all the spirits Varney would turn loose tonight because he never missed a section’s corner headstone, I reminded myself that I had to go back to the house to get the cloths to wipe down the markers they’d already spattered with grass.    

“Cloths in the shed are union property,” Varney informed me last fall. “You ain’t union, you don’t use ‘em.” I had used petty cash to buy a supply of microfiber cloths the next day.

    I checked the time and prayed the digger would finish and leave in time for me to clean up the Plutarch stones.

He’d gone about three feet down, with three more to go in the rectangular hole. I could not wait. Section A would have to be where I started. First impressions and all.

    I managed to wipe down the stones in A, C, and H by the time I heard the backhoe grind its way up the gravel paths back to the shed. I caught a quick, closer glimpse of the lower half of the driver’s face. That strong, square jaw, firm, narrow lips clamped shut and the loveliest of Adam’s apples jutting out from his neck.

    I turned into the Potter’s Field, away from the shed. He’d have to install the hydraulics, lay the artificial turf then the folding chairs, all of which were stored in the shed. I didn’t think Varney or Trumbull would help him. Division of labor and all that. And I couldn’t be sure the driver hadn’t brought a second man along to help set up. I wouldn’t really know until I got the bill from the union. I decided I would not imitate our neighbor across the street, Mrs. Schnosburg and poke, as Grandpa Dov would say, my big “schnozz” into their business. Not yet.

    I moved onto Section G.

    Whoever that square-jawed, tight-jeaned digger was who prepared the site had finished and disappeared before noon. A good thing, because the Plutarch funeral procession was early. I watched the line of cars from the oak tree, counting twelve including the hearse and hoping they didn’t take a flat place with or without a headstone as parking space. Twelve cars, two funeral home employees, and minister and fourteen mourners.

“Some turnout for one of the area’s wealthiest women,” was my first thought. If you consider the packed cathedrals on television for the funerals of state leaders or the overflowing neighborhood churches for an elder or popular minister, you might feel badly for Eulalie Plutarch. Myself, I’ve seen cars parked along Mansfield Road for two blocks in both directions and more going east on Bayberry towards the library, bringing as many as a hundred people, for a child’s funeral. But, I suppose, the Plutarchs who mattered, and were the ones mentioned in her will, made it to the graveside for the burial.

Thank God the sun shone in a clear springtime sky. I had no doubt that Truman Plutarch would have wanted some reimbursement if it had rained.

[itsworn]

Hot Rod Builder Finally Has the 1932 Ford 5-Window Coupe of his Dreams

Turbulent. America was booming during the 1950s. Oh sure, the country experienced some angst, especially with the fear of the Ruskies blowing us to smithereens. Then came the 1960s, which saw a gradual escalation in turmoil and tragedies. The assassinations of JFK, Martin Luther King, and Bobby Kennedy. Civil rights and riots. Vietnam. Anger grew within several segments of the population, starting with the younger generation.

In a way, hot rods from the 1960s somewhat reflect that angry attitude. More V8s sported wild induction systems, from blowers to fuel injection, while “sports wheels” created by American Racing, Halibrand, and the like often replaced steel rims, depending on the owners’ budgets. Drag racing influenced hot rodders as well; they borrowed the idea of installing Moon-style fuel tanks in front of the grille. Whitewall tires fell by the wayside around 1962, as blackwalls came back in vogue, with a heavy rake being sometimes accentuated by fat drag racing slicks mounted in the rear.

Yes, slicks like the Dragmasters mounted on Drew Strunk’s ’32 coupe, which oozes 1960s all over. To be fair, the Ohio resident occasionally runs the car on steel wheels and bias-ply rubber; but we felt compelled to ask him to keep the five-spoke rims and slicks for our photo shoot. The latter proved rather epic due to heavy rain, obviously not the best conditions when driving purposely smooth tires.

“I might have a solution,” Drew said. “My pal Rob Mullins owns a great building, which we might use for your article.” Following a quick phone call and approval from Rob, we hit the road. Drew skillfully kept the Deuce under control during the very wet 20-minute journey. Our destination was Mullins’ man cave, originally a church built in 1901, restored by the man himself and decorated with memorabilia reflecting his passion for vintage drag racing. It doesn’t get much better than this.

The vibe of the place nicely complements the blue ’32, assembled with period correctness in mind. Drew has an acute understanding of hot rodding’s history, having been raised by a father deeply involved in the hobby for a half-century. Jack (the dad) credits family members for his own interest in the hot rod scene. He told us, “I grew up spending most of my summers with an uncle and a cousin, who rebuilt and dolled up old cars. I used my allowance each week to buy the little 25-cent hot rod books and plastic model cars, and learned everything I could.”

Now in his early forties, Drew has fond memories of his childhood, when his dad wrenched on hot rods for fun. “As a kid, I remember sitting in the front seat between my parents in his ’32 five-window coupe, barely able to look over the dash. And I was taught how to weld at 7 years old.” You can say that hot rods played an essential part in his life. Building models, cruising, car shows, and dad’s buddies in the driveway talking cars… It was a great time to be a child.

Later in life, Drew held several jobs: welder, truck driver, mechanic, auto accessory detailer, parts counterman, and delivery driver. They paid the bills; but it wasn’t until his father retired and decided to start a full-fledged hot rod business that he found his dream job. Based in Cincinnati, Ohio, the company is called Dropped Axle Productions and has built an excellent reputation in the Midwest, thanks to its quality project cars.

Drew focuses on fabricating custom chassis for traditional hot rods, though the father-and-son duo also performs a ton of other tasks, from chopped tops and filled roofs to panel repairs and complete restorations. They additionally manufacture their own laser-cut boxing plates, suspension brackets, plus brake and clutch pedal assemblies. While hot rods remain the shop’s focus, the small crew of two often works on offbeat vehicles, some quite memorable. The list includes a severely chopped split-window Volkswagen Bug with a Chevy Corvair flat-six powerplant, and a funky ’62 Renault Dauphine, which lost its four-cylinder rear engine to welcome a Chevy 350ci V8 up front.

Fun stuff for sure. Yet, Drew kept dreaming of a ’32 Ford five-window coupe, and started the search for one in his early twenties. We don’t need to tell you that Deuce coupes have been a hot rodder’s favorite forever, and their scarcity makes them expensive. Consequently, the young Strunk considered using a fiberglass body, until his dad found the real deal on the Internet: a steel shell located in Kansas City, Missouri. “We drove straight through, 12 hours one way,” Drew said. “The guy who had it for sale was going to use it for a clone of the American Graffiti coupe, but the body was in such bad shape that he wasn’t able to salvage it himself. He ended up using a fiberglass body, and I managed to buy a true steel body in the end.”

The roof was “atrocious,” he said, and he almost did not purchase the chopped shell for that very fact. Thankfully, a friend of his dad who owned a roof section in decent shape came to the rescue. It required some work, though the surgery gave the opportunity to chop the top even more, resulting in each post losing a slice of 4 inches compared to stock. The 85-year-old tin, featuring a roof insert courtesy of a Chevy Corvair top, now displays that perfect hot rod attitude.

As luck would have it, a second main component emerged shortly after, in the shape of a genuine ’32 frame. It was seriously mangled; but on the plus side, it could be fixed and—most importantly—it was free. Drew put it in Dropped Axle Productions’ jig, before picking a few items from the shop’s shelves, specifically crossmembers (flattened an inch) and a drilled front axle, which he moved forward to lengthen the wheelbase for a better profile.

Notice the lack of frame horns in front. Drew elected to shorten and pinch them so that they could hide behind the stock grille. In the spirit of drag cars, several components have been drilled for weight reduction and aesthetics, including the lever shocks, most any bracket, plus the framerails. There are a couple of nods to Drew’s grandfather, in the shape of the cowl’s vent handle that came from his mother’s oven (!), along with the mighty ’62 Cadillac V8. Grandpa was a fan of these powerplants.

The engine features a handful of desirable parts, starting with the intake manifold. “I searched high and low for the Offenhauser 3×2 model,” Drew said. “I finally found one without the heat riser at a local swap meet. It wasn’t cheap but well worth adding to the car’s overall look. I also admired the dimpled valve covers offered by various cam companies back in the day. I hunted for a pair, but to no avail. I finally took it upon myself to make the dimples on stock valve covers. Once I was happy with the profile, I sent them out to the chrome shop.”

Finding a camshaft for the Caddy proved a bit challenging, although Schneider Racing eventually offered a blank properly machined. (“I wanted the nastiest sounding cam and I got it.”) He also custom made the motor mounts featuring a cast-piece appearance, then riveted them to the frame. They have become quite popular since, having been duplicated by others on their hot rods.

The exhaust system, purchased from lakeheaders.com and welded by Drew, does not muffle much of the V8’s growl. “I’ve made several babies cry as I started the coupe at gas stations. Needless to say, I get dirty looks from mothers.” Kids might be scared just staring at the car, which looks mean just standing still.

With enjoyable road trips in mind, our man made a concession by installing a modern Tremec transmission with an overdrive, thanks to a Wilcap adapter. The lack of stock fuel tank visually unclutters the back of the coupe and thereby shows the N.O.S. Halibrand rearend, scored from a local racer who never used it. It was a killer find that obviously pleased Drew, since he had put it on his “must-have” list early in the game.

On average, our talented craftsman concedes building a car “on the side” in his own garage each year, and then selling it to finance the next project. But to be clear: This one, built on a surprisingly tight budget, is not for sale. It’s a keeper. Considering the scarcity of Deuce coupes, who can blame him?

How is this for a man cave? With the weather not cooperating, we photographed Drew Strunk’s blue Deuce in this great garage, owned by one of Drew’s friends, Rob Mullins. The name sounds familiar? Rob is heavily involved in the Gasser hobby, as he has a few historical survivors.

From this angle, you can see the curved spreader bar made by the owner, as he explains: “I shortened the back of the frame so I could install the bar. To match the curvature of the body, I heated up the back side of the bar and quenched it with water until I got the desired shape.”

Who needs a hood when you run such a beautiful motor? Notice the headlights of unknown origin—they might have come from a French car—mounted low, a look made popular by the Rolling Bones crew on the East Coast.

“When it came to the engine, I was undecided,” Drew recalled. “My grandfather always spoke highly of Cadillac engines. As a tribute to him, I chose a 390-inch 1962 Cad.” Grandpa would be proud: It’s a beauty. And it’s angry.

Behind the rare Offenhauser manifold with three Stromberg 97s sits a Cirello magneto. The name has been associated with drag racing since the 1960s, when Cirello equipped many nitro cars. The Cirello family still services magnetos to this day from its shop in Costa Mesa, California.

Having been employed by hot rodders for decades, Buick drums nicely fit the theme of the car. They complement a rear brake setup from a Ford pickup truck.

Ancient 9.00-15 Dragmaster slicks were swap meet scores, which now wrap around 15×8.5 American Racing five-spokes. Drew elected to use 15×4 magnesium reproductions in front, along with BFGoodrich 5.00-15 rubber by Coker Tire.

The panel under the rear lid, which has been punched with 150-plus louvers, houses a pair of unusual Art Deco-styled taillights that originally equipped a ’37 DeSoto. They flank a vintage Sacramento Capitol Speed Shop license plate frame.

As the trunk lacks a floor, you can clearly see the Halibrand quick-change and pinstripes on the axle tubes. That fuel tank came from a late-’50s/early-’60s F5 jet fighter. It was originally used to store coolant for the engine. A trimmed ’58 Ford decklid serves as bulkhead divider between the seat and the trunk.

Recognize the seats? Drew doesn’t (and neither do we, in fact), though he believes they might either be from a plane or a British sports car. More unanswered questions remain regarding the all-aluminum steering wheel, which was signed by Norm Grabowski shortly before he passed away.

No less than eight Stewart-Warner gauges from the 1940s adorn the cool dash. We especially dig the 150-mph “Police Special” speedo. “Most were eBay finds, although dad allowed me to raid his stock pile for two of them.”

These windows were chopped just the right-amount. Actually, the ’32 had already lost a 3-inch slice when Drew got it; but he decided to remove an extra inch for a mean attitude. As the body has not been channeled, cabin comfort remains acceptable for sub-6-foot-tall folks.

While the car occasionally sits on vintage steelies and bias-ply rubber, Drew was happy to run the ’32 with the five-spokes and old slicks during our photo shoot—until it rained, that is. He did rather well on the road, especially considering the V8 delivers about 400 horses.

Drew typically works on a personal project every year, though not all of them can be considered “traditional.” Some belong to the “Dare to be Different” category, including a V8-powered Renault Dauphine and this chopped Volksrod, motivated by a Corvair flat-six! (Photo: Fabien Bécasse)

Moving the I-beam 2 inches forward makes the coupe appear sleeker and less stubby. Yes, the color is the well-known Washington Blue, which Ford offered in 1932; a dose of matting agent contributes to the semi-gloss finish.

The post Hot Rod Builder Finally Has the 1932 Ford 5-Window Coupe of his Dreams appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[itsworn]

Barn Find 1932 Ford Roadster Becomes a 1940s Hot Rod with Perfect Patina

Dreamer. Ever since it appeared as a bimonthly magazine in 2008, HOT ROD Deluxe has strived to keep the past alive. Barn finds understandably play an essential role in this scheme due to their historical importance, but the pool of dusty 1930s relics being stashed away continues to thin as time passes. Meaning: Good luck finding one. Dave York was one of those dreamers who resigned himself to the idea of never being able to come across such a find. However, the instincts of the Surrey, British Columbia, resident proved wrong, as his inspiring story will confirm.

Before digging further into our tale, let’s introduce a second Canadian largely responsible for its outcome: Cam Grant. Regular HOT ROD readers might remember his name, thanks to an extensive article devoted to him in the June 2012 issue. He incidentally launched a line of hot rod windshields in the style of the DuVall model, though he eventually sold all the patterns to his good friend Dave York. Cam has been a longtime hot rodder, having amassed an impressive assortment of vehicles and parts over the years, including a pair of ’32 Ford roadster bodies.

Their story goes something like this: According to legend, a Deuce had been sitting in a barn loft a few hundred miles outside of Vancouver, BC. “I was skeptical that it would be a ’32, let alone a roadster,” Dave says. “I was in Cam’s garage one night in 2010, and he told me two of his friends had taken a truck and trailer to search for the car. We joked, commenting that it might turn out to be a Chevy coach or something like that.” A week later, Dave returned to his buddy’s house for another bench-racing session. Cam showed him a picture on his computer of a Deuce roadster, in what looked like the inside of an old barn. Yep, the legend proved to be true. “Look closer,” Cam indicated; and as Dave zoomed in, he could discern a second ’32 roadster behind it. He was speechless. One of the two gentlemen who had found the Deuces truly scored, paying 1970s prices for the pair, which had been stored in the barn for three decades. However, they were not what he wanted, so he called Cam, who didn’t think twice about it and purchased them on the spot.

Along with many others, Dave informed Cam that if one of these shells came up for sale, he would be the man. Mister Grant decided to resuscitate the white body first and hung the blue one in his rafters. A couple of years passed, and Dave received a phone call with a familiar voice at the other end simply asking: “Do you want the blue roadster?” As soon as he hung up, he was on his way to Cam’s place with a car trailer in tow. Sure, reviving the old Ford tin might translate into challenges, from a bent dash to smashed door tops. “But I had a vision in my head, so these issues didn’t really matter. It was pure cool.”

Having a deep appreciation for historical hot rods, Dave insisted on preserving as much of the patina as possible, gingerly fixing one issue at a time. He started by cutting off the upper part of the inner doorskins, thus gaining access to the door tops, which needed to be hammered and dollied into shape. He never intended to metal-finish them. Then the cut-out areas were simply welded back in before tackling the next major job: the “twist” of the body, handled thanks to a Porto-Power ram, heat, hammers, and a dolly. You’ll be surprised how well the doors open and close now. Dave additionally managed to locate hood sides and tops with matching patina, along with a grille shell, altered eons ago by removing/filling the bezel and radiator cap.

Extracted from a ’39 Ford, the flathead V8 was originally from a ’41 Mercury, the perfect foundation for a ’40s-style hopped-up motor. It looks great, too. You can’t miss the Navarro heads and dual Stromberg carbs; however, the block hides a number of other popular hi-po goodies from the same era: Iskenderian 400 Jr. cam, Johnson adjustable lifters, together with Lincoln Zephyr springs and stainless valves. The burned air/fuel mixture travels through Red’s headers and 1-3/4-inch exhaust lines sans muffler. Since our photo session, Dave has also replaced the Mallory dual-point distributor with an H&C magneto fully rebuilt by Tom Cirello. Power makes its way to the rear wheels via a ’39 Ford gearbox; opening its top divulged a set of desirable (and stronger) Lincoln Zephyr gears, a rather unexpected but welcomed surprise.

The puzzle began to take shape, yet still missed a few components, such as the complete roadster top. “One of my friends, Keith Warren, fortunately had the irons and original wood that he had squirreled away since 1963,” Dave recalls enthusiastically. After chopping the stanchions and windshield frame by 4 inches, he went to work to cut the irons accordingly, achieving an esthetically pleasant chopped top. “Many thanks to my father, John, who handled the woodwork. The ends of the rear bow had to be extensively modified in particular so that the top wasn’t so wide in that area.”

One of the most difficult challenges was yet to come: What material could he use to cover the reworked top mechanism? New and fresh-looking canvas was obviously out of the question, but another friend, Paul Reichlin, had the perfect solution. The owner of Cedardale Upholstery in Mt. Vernon, Washington, Paul has a ton of experience with traditional hot rods, in addition to Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance winners. He had saved a complete but aging soft top from an older restoration, based on a phaeton almost a century old. Worn out and stained, the material was ideal for what York had in mind. It matches to perfection the old leather that covers the bench seat, as well as the original wood floorboards.

With Frank Burns handling the wiring and a few other friends helping along the way, Dave managed to build a ’32 Deluxe roadster that truly catches the spirit of the 1940s. He and the car have entered a number of events in recent times, including Southern California’s 2014 Grand National Roadster Show (a 2,600-mile round trip from Vancouver), where he parked within the renowned Suede Palace. A proud addition to the Torchmen Rod & Kustom Club out of Langley, BC, the derelict Ford still continues evolving, though, with the latest addition being a genuine Halibrand Culver City quick-change.

They say a hot rod is never finished, a gearhead’s motto already in 1946, and still applicable in 2017, as Dave York will confirm.

From the outset, Dave York’s plan for his barn-find roadster was to preserve the car’s patina, although the body still required a bit of TLC due to the body and dash being damaged. Dave did not use a speck of body filler during the restoration process.

These three pictures tell the tale of this fantastic find. The first photo divulges the vehicle, still a roller, during the 1970s. Next, you can see its shell in the company of a second ’32. “That white roadster had been channeled a long time ago,” Dave explains, “but the floor and subrails were gone. On the other hand, my blue roadster had great rails and floor, yet the areas along the cowl and a quarter-panel hadn’t fared well. When stored, the car had been rolled over on its top side with a bulldozer or some piece of equipment. Both door tops sustained damage, and the body was twisted. After years of collecting trapped water, the cowl and quarter-panel became pin-holed in a few areas.” The third photo shows the body and frame being moved out of the barn.

How cool is this chopped top? The material was salvaged from a late-teens phaeton, once in the hands of the Harrah’s Collection. It had sustained water damage while in storage. “That stained fabric was a little weak and tore easily, so I had it double-laminated with modern Stay Fast canvas,” Dave says.

The engine and three-speed gearbox came from a ’39 Ford cabriolet, as its owner wanted to swap it for a more up-to-date V8. Dave thought he had purchased a stock 221ci engine, but after removing the stock iron heads, he soon discovered it was originally from a ’41 Mercury and thereby displaced 239 ci.

As you would expect, the motor has that “1940s hot rod appearance,” thanks to a pair of Navarro heads (bought by one of Dave’s friends from Barney Navarro before he passed away in 2007) and dual vintage Stromberg 97s with SP tops, bolted to an equally old Edelbrock Slingshot 2×2 manifold.

Much in the spirit of 1940s hot rods, Dave’s roadster relies on a stock, non-dropped axle. However, the use of ’40 Ford juice brakes in lieu of cable-activated drums was a fairly common practice. The car also retains its factory lever shocks, front and aft. Notice the nice overall finish of the chassis and components, painted satin black.

“My father John located an old brown love seat at a secondhand store,” Dave remembers. “I stripped it of its patina’d leather hide, and Bob Campbell whipped up a great pleated seat for me.” Bomber-style belts have been a hot rodder favorite since the early days of the hobby.

A ’37 Lincoln Zephyr supplied the steering wheel, while the column support came from another Lincoln, of ’32 vintage. For ease of mind, a couple of old Sun gauges (oil temp and fuel level) were discretely positioned under the dash. We dig the Yankee accessory turn signal switch as well.

Dave elected to reuse the factory 90-mph ’32 speedo, while two additional Eelco instruments keep him informed of the oil pressure and battery charge. The original bronze SCTA badge to the right of the cluster came from friend Pat Swanson.

A bunch of hot rods built back in the ’40s ran their headlights fairly high, and this one is no exception. To achieve the feat, Dave modified/straightened two ’32 Ford fender braces, which now serve as individual stands for the Corcoran Brown headlights.

Period-correct Ford ’39 taillights look perfect on each side of the stock gas tank. Check out the rebuilt Houdaille lever shock, above the springs.

The roadster rolls on a set of 16×4 ’35 Ford rims, though you can’t see the wires anymore, ad they are being hidden behind a set of desirable Lyons wheel covers. Moderate rake relies on Firestone rubber measuring 6.00-16 and 7.50-16.

Here is a bonus picture recently snapped by Dave, showing the roadster now equipped with side curtains, a neat addition.

Tribute

A keeper of the “traditionalist” flame in British Columbia, Dave has also been known for his fantastic ’49 Ford cleverly built as a tribute to the mid-1950s custom cars. Its story begins 15 years ago when he purchased the shell of a Tudor sedan, primered and already chopped 3 inches by the previous owner. While managing to get his ride on the road fairly quickly, he was never satisfied with the top chop; so in 2009, he decided to completely revamp the vehicle. The roof lost another 3-inch slice, and the body received several alterations, such as moving the headlights forward 4 inches and installing ’51 Olds 98 taillights. The green color came from the 2007 Jeep paint chart. Under that hood lurks a more-than-able 327ci Chevy engine.

After Dave worked until 3 in the morning with friends, his maiden voyage behind the wheel was to Santa Maria’s 2010 Cruisin’ Nationals. It captured the imagination of many enthusiasts, so much so that the duo was invited to the 2011 Grand National Roadster Show. That year, the event offered a special exhibit called “Customs: Then and Now,” featuring no less than 75 “members of the custom car royalty,” with the oldest models built in the 1940s. Being a part of that exhibit certainly was a highlight in Dave’s years of involvement in the hot rod and custom scene, accompanied by his wonderful better half, Belinda.

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