The First Of Many James L. Cowles (c) Copyright 2025 by James L. Cowles

Photo courtesy of the author.

It was a 1940 Ford Deluxe, two door sedan, flathead V8. I was sixteen years old, and had just got my license, and now my first car was sitting in my back yard.

In all the time I knew him, my father had never owned a car. Oh, he had one when he was younger, but not now. He was forty years old when I was born, and when I was seven or eight, he told me about it. It was an old Ford, and when he moved from Brownsville, Kentucky, to Louisville, he drove it that short one hundred miles to the “big city,” and that may be the last time he drove it. Actually, driving that short distance was a bit daunting back in the day, because Kentucky, like most states, did not have anything like an expressway system. That didn't come until Dwight Eisenhower became President, and although it was his idea, it took years to develop. Keep in mind, my father came up north in the early nineteen hundreds, and if you were coming, or going to Brownsville from Louisville, you had to take Dixie Highway, or Dixie Die-way, as it was once known. Mostly two lanes, and a number of little cities to drive through, most of which had the dreaded, “speed-traps.” And, most of the Dixie was two lanes, and with the state being full of farmers, you could not help but get behind a tractor or two. The trip usually took a decent driver over two hours. Now, if you were a daredevil, with a heavy foot, you could cut that down by twenty or more minutes. To do so meant occasionally passing on blind curves and hills, and throwing caution to the wind. In fact, drivers would often brag, “I made it in hour and a half,” only to have someone else say, “that’s nothing, I made in one hour and twentyeight minutes.”

I only mention all of that to help you understand my dad's decision. He told me, “Jimmy, I parked that car after I came up, and sold it as quick as I could. I just couldn't drive in Louisville; it made me so nervous.” I never asked him about his trip up from Brownsville, but it had to be the beginning of the end for him. Dad did love to go back home as often as he could, but that was either by train (he had a free family pass as an employee of the L&N railroad), or bumming a ride from someone. Fortunately, he had two sons in-law from near his hometown, but that's another great story. He also carried his last car license in his wallet, all of his life.

So, back to my first car. Actually, the forty Ford was not mine. It belonged to my youngest sister and her husband, Oval Johnson. There is no doubt that my sister Gloria was behind my receiving such a great gift. She made me a deal. She said they would lend me that car, only if I agreed to take my mother and father anywhere they needed to go, to which I quickly agreed. My brother-in-law threw in one other caveat, and that was, I had to hand rub the entire car with rubbing compound. His brother had laid down ten coats of black lacquer on the car, but had not “rubbed it out.” I think I began rubbing the car the same day they delivered it too me, and after finishing, which took me several days, I hand waxed it. I had that old car gleaming, and that made my brother-in-law so proud.

I quickly learned that as good as it looked on the outside, the engine was not in such good shape. In fact, and this is not an exaggeration, it left a trail of smoke that would not dissipate for several minutes after I drove past. Some of that smoke ended up inside the car as well, and leaving the windows open was mostly a requirement. To be honest, while I loved that old car, I was embarrassed to take it around my friends, especially those of the female variety. I don't remember how it happened, but I remember my brother-in-law finally coming to me , saying; “If you help me, we will put another engine in that car.” I also remember saying, “it’s a deal!” He had rigged up a tripod in his backyard, out of old telephone poles, behind his garage, and with a block and tackle attached to it, we lifted the old engine out, and put the new one in.

Oval was a good mechanic, some of which I’m sure he learned in the Army, in WWII, but most of which he learned from just doing. Back in the day, while mechanics was not easy, most anyone could figure them out, and take care of their own car, that is, if you had a mind to do so. Anyway, I recall he and I visiting a number of junkyards, before we found a replacement engine. We finally hit the jackpot on the outskirts of Fairdale, Kentucky, and for just $25,we bought a 1948 flathead, V8, from a ’48 Mercury, which was a perfect fit.

It took several Saturdays for us to finish, with me mostly watching, and being Oval’s assistant mechanic, you know, more of a “goffer” than anything. When it was finished, I couldn't believe how much more power that old car had. The old flathead Ford engines produced about 95 horses, and 1940 was the first year Ford moved the gear shift from the floor to the steering wheel, giving birth to the famous, “three on the tree,” expression.

Well, I drove that old car until I tore the transmission out of it, twice, I should add. Dad paid $40 to have it fixed the first time, but when it happened again, after he gave me a good tongue lashing, he told my sister that Oval should come get it. He did indeed come to get it, and at the same time, he brought me a ’49 Mercury to drive. Now that is a whole other story to tell, and if you like old cars, it's one you would enjoy. Another time, maybe.

The last I heard of the old ’40 Ford, a soldier from Fort Knox bought it, with the intention of putting a new transmission in it, and driving it on post. Oh, the many times I have wished I had that old car. Thanks, Sis, and Oval, who was more like a brother than a brother-in-law. Hopefully, they are together again, where time never ends.