The old 38 Dodge pickup gave me countless hours of enjoyment and I probably was able to put a couple hundred miles on it.  I know that doesn’t
sound like much but I was only allowed to drive to the end of our dooryard and back which was about a tenth of a mile round trip.  Granted, once in a
while, I would get brave enough to sneak up to Dave’s and drive through his fields but I always ended up losing track of time and getting caught.  Dave never helped much either because he wanted to get his hands on that pickup and did all he could do to encourage me drive it to his place.

One day, when I was walking home from the poultry farm, I happened to notice that Dave had a couple of extra cars in his driveway and one looked like an honest to goodness doodle bug, something I was always going to make the old 38 into but never found the time.  Besides that, driving  was more fun than working,  especially working on something that stood a good chance of never running.  Moments  later I was crawling all over the doodle bug and hitting Dave with a  hundred questions.  Somehow Dave had traded something he no longer needed  for these fine looking autos.  One was a 53 Buick which was in really good shape but needed a starter and the other was a 53 Chevy which had been converted to a doodle bug.  This old Chevy’s body and frame had been cut right in half behind the front seat.  The drive shaft had been shortened and the rear wheels were right behind  the back of the front seat.  To hold the roof up, a piece of plywood had been cut to fit with an oval hole in the middle of it to serve as a back window, minus the glass.  Right above the rear wheels was a wooden box filled with concrete to add a little weight and sitting on the passenger floor was a five gallon gas can with a rubber hose running into it.   In my eyes this 53 doddle bug was way cooler than Dave’s and I knew I had to have it.

That was about the time  Dave started in trying to trade the doodle bug for my old 38 and he almost had me but, I told him I first wanted to hear the engine run.  Dave sat behind the steering wheel and turned the ignition switch and the old car fired to life and it sounded a lot like the fourth of  July.  It sat there bang, sputter, bang, bang, cough then quit.  Dave said, “Yea, it could use a tune up but I know with your talent that would be a piece of cake.”  I didn’t want to point out that he didn’t know my talent all that well so I kinda agreed with him.

When dad drove into the dooryard that night, where the old 38 usually sat there was a doodle bug and out behind the barn, out of sight was a 53 Buick that didn’t run.  I met dad at the door and was so excited that I could hardly talk.  I dragged him over to the 53 Chevy or I should say what was left of it and said “What do you think of her?”  He told me what he thought about her and I thought that was uncalled for,  but decided not to say anything.  I then fired the doodle bug up so he could hear it run and once again he told me what the thought about it. Then a smile came over his face.  The only thing I can think is he must have figured the doodle would never get out of the dooryard on its own power.

For the next couple of weeks I worked on the old 53 every chance I got but it didn’t seem to matter what I did to it.  As soon as I started to drive it would go cough, bang, bang, cough and sometimes end with a big poof of smoke.   In the meanwhile dad decided to have a culvert buried at the far end of the dooryard, in hopes that by diverting some of the water away from the ditch that followed the driveway,  the dooryard wouldn’t be so muddy in the spring.

On the first day that the culvert work began my cousin, Alan, showed up with a backhoe to dig the ditch in which the culvert would be laid.  I was back working on my doodle bug and the moment Alan heard it run he came over and said, “It sounds like bad gas to me.”  So with that I took the five gallon gas can out of the front, filled dad’s two lawn mowers, his rototiller and tractor.  This almost emptied my gas can so I grabbed his fresh can of gas and filled mine.
Slowly but surely the doodle bug began to run better and better and soon all of the banging and coughing was gone and that old 53 was some fast.  Again I met dad at the door when he got home that night and I wouldn’t let him in the house until he tried my doodle bug.  A smile came over his face when he heard how smooth it ran and slowly we drove out to the end of the driveway. Dad pushed the clutch in and we came to a stop, he shifted it into reverse and we started to back up.  I said, “Step on it and see how much power this ole thing has.”  Dad stomped the gas pedal to the floor and we shot backwards like we had been shot from a sling shot.  When we went by the barn dad stepped on the brake pedal only to discover that they went to the floor.  ”Oh yea”, I said, “I got to work on the brakes next.”  That is when I remembered the ditch that Alan had dug that day.  I looked out the back window and could see the pile of dirt, which was protecting the ditch, fast approaching. I looked at dad and he was wearing the same expression Dave had when we shot down the steep hill in Dave’s doodle bug.   Dad instantly slipped the car into neutral, double clutched it and crammed the shifting lever into first gear.  He then put the gas pedal to the floor and popped the clutch.  I soon saw the rear tires throwing dirt out the back as we continued to close the gap between us and the ditch. For a while all I could hear was a real loud screaming, that and the noise dad was making. We rode up to the top of the dirt pile before we came to a stop and slowly started to head back out of the driveway.  Dad once again told me what he thought of my doodle bug.

Not much was said at the dinner table that night and after supper dad went out to mow the lawn. A few minutes later I stepped outside to start working on the brakes.  As soon as I stepped out into the garage I could hear the lawn mower going bang, bang, cough, sputter and then quit.  Dad was bent over trying to adjust the carburetor.  I hollered out, “It sounds like bad gas to me.”

By the time Dave and I had lugged all of the scattered rocks back to the stone wall, it was time for me to rush home for dinner.  I had suggested that we leave the hole, put a board across and call it a gate but like all disputes, that is all the time, Dave was bigger than I was. We settled them Dave’s way and that way was to wrestle for the answer.

As soon as the doodle bug screeched to a halt, in front of Dave’s big old barn, I was off running towards home.  I burst through the front door covered with sweat and dirt and I was wired tight.  As fast as I could I washed off the dirt or, I should say, the dirt you could see, and I slid into my seat at the dinner table.  The dinner table, back then,  was a place for each of us to share our day with one another.  Looking back I can safely say it was a special time for everyone.  Dad worked on the poultry farm and came home every night at 5pm to a hot meal that mom had just put on the table.  I can remember a time when I was about six years old and my brother Greg was four.  Dad’s nightly ritual, after work that is,  was to wash his face, shave then rinse the rest of the shaving cream off.  For some reason the shaving fascinated both Greg and myself so, after dad was done shaving, Greg and I would take turns lathering up with hand soap and then take one of dad’s old razors,  the one without the blade in it, and shave the soap off our faces.  One night when I was finished shaving,  Greg took his turn and a few minutes later came walking into the dining room and blood was coming out of a good half dozen places on his face.  Mom grabbed Greg and back to the bathroom they went.  The next time I saw Greg his face was covered with tiny pieces of toilet paper.   The dinner table was a very enjoyable part of our day.

The moment there was a break in the nightly conversation I let loose, telling about my day and Dave’s doodle bug.  I figured it was best if I left the ride down the steep hill out of my story and to this day I still think it was the right decision.  I was soon bugging dad about him helping me find an old pickup I could make a doodle bug out of.  At the time I was flat busted broke so I reminded dad that the price would have to be pretty cheap.  Much to my surprise and delight dad knew of such a pickup.  As it turned out it was the truck that sat right behind our very own barn, a pickup I had completely forgotten about.

This was Grandpa Dick’s old pickup.  Grandpa Dick, my mother’s dad, had bought a newer truck and thought my dad might be able to put his old pickup to use on the farm, so he drove it to our place and just left it.   There was, however, one catch. The pickup needed a battery and if I wanted to use the truck I had to buy the battery with my own money.  We were just heading into fall, so every penny I earned while working on the poultry farm went into a special hiding place and, come spring, I had saved enough for the battery.

I hate to admit this but it took me quite a while to find where the battery went.  Believe it or not the floor was made out of wood and you had to very carefully lift one corner of the floor and thread it up over the shifting and emergency brake levers.  Under this floor was a tray for the battery and attached to the under side of the brake pedal was the master cylinder.  The battery, once filled with water, was a lot heavier than I had planned on, but after a bit I got it in place and out of sheer luck hooked the cables to the right battery posts.  I then smiled and reached for the ignition key only to find it missing.  I immediately thought of Greg and hunted him down.  After much interrogation, I came to the conclusion that he didn’t know a thing about the key either.

I ended up tearing the house, barn, pickup and even the old chicken coop apart but never did find the key.  After another couple more weeks of working, I had enough money to buy an ignition key and switch.  Wiring in an ignition switch turned out to be more challenging that I had expected and I finally had to ask dad for help. After dinner I dragged dad out behind the barn. This was even before he had the chance to read the paper. I stood there and watched him switch two wires and that was all it took.  As soon as he turned the key to the on position the little green light on the dash lit up and dad stepped on the starter button which was on the floor by the gas pedal.  The starter slammed into the flywheel and locked solid.  Again the smile left my face.

I immediately started in on the long  job of pulling the starter out.  There was one bolt on top that was easy to see and get at.  By twisting into an unnatural position I was able to feel two bolts underneath that had to come out.  The top bolt was out in minutes and then I started in on the long process of taking one of the bottom bolts out.  I worked until dark and still had a ways to go on the first unseen bolt.  The next day, as soon as the morning chores and breakfast were over,  I was back twisting myself into a deformed shape and went back to work on the starter bolt.  A short while before I had to return to the farm to do the mid morning egg  picking, I got the first lower bolt out.  I tried  then to wiggle the starter to see if it was a little loose but it was held tight in place by the third bolt.

Just before darkness consumed the day, I was able to get the third bolt out and as soon as I removed the starter I heard the starter gear  slam back into place.  I then turned the starter over to look at it. I noticed that it only had two  mounting ears on it.  I had spent hours pulling out a bolt that helped hold the transmission to the engine.  At least with the starter out of the way the transmission bolt went back in place easily.

During the noon hour of day three, I dragged dad out behind the barn again and much to both of our surprise the old pickup started.  I can still remember hearing it pop and bang as it came to life and after a few minutes it began to smooth out.  The next thing I knew I saw dad put it in gear and the rear wheels  began to throw dirt and slowly it began to move and  moments later we were in front of the barn instead of behind it.

I couldn’t wait to show Dave my new treasure but dad made it pretty clear I was not going to drive it up the road to Dave’s  place so I had to wait for Dave to find the time to stop in.  Dave was just enough older than I was that he found girls interesting so I was in for a bit of a wait.  One day Dave did stop in and he couldn’t believe what  good shape the old pickup was in and instantly tried to find a way to get the truck for his collection.  I wouldn’t budge so Dave convinced me that I should rebuild the pickup. After all, he said, “It only has a few tiny rust holes in the running boards and all the fenders were on it and solid.”

This sounded like a really good idea to me so the next day, after dad took off for work, I drove the pickup into the garage and started to take it apart.  It happened to be one of dad’s long egg route days and by the time he got home for dinner I had the garage full of pickup parts.   At dinner that night we talked mostly about my plans for the pickup.  I told dad that I was going to rebuild it and that I hoped he didn’t mind if I took over his garage while I did it.  I said, ” I don’t think it will hurt your car at all to sit outside while I work on my truck.”   Dad then took a turn at expressing his thoughts and as it turned out my plans changed.  The next morning I was to start putting the pickup back together.

When dad got home the next day, which was also a long egg route day, not only was the garage full of parts but also the small lawn in front of the garage.  I figured the truck would go back together a lot quicker than coming apart and I would have the time to take it apart a little bit more.  As it turned out I was much better at taking things apart than putting them back together. Not only could I not remember what part went where, but several of the parts I couldn’t even remember taking off.

It took dad until the middle of the following week before he was able to get my pickup back together enough so it would move on its own. Years later dad made the mistake of asking me if I could find out why his pickup wouldn’t run.  I was sleeping in late that morning because I had taken a few days off from work before I had to take off for college.  When dad was heading out of the dooryard, that morning,  his pickup quit running.  One of my friends, Bert, had just finished working with a local plumber so I called him and asked if he wanted to help.  Well neither Bert nor I had any clue as to what we were doing, so we just started to take parts off and look at them.  If we didn’t see anything wrong we put them in the cab of the truck and take off another part.  After the cab was full we started to fill the pickup bed.  By the end of the day we had parts everywhere and still no idea why the truck wouldn’t run. As it turned out that was okay because the next day was Saturday and no parts stores were open, so we couldn’t have fixed the pickup anyways. The next day was  Sunday and that afternoon I took off for college and Bert left to live with his grandmother in a town forty miles away.  When I drove out of the dooryard the last thing I saw in my rear view mirror was dad.  He was just standing there, with his hands in his pants pocket, looking at his pickup.

Over the years I have been associated with several doodle bugs and have actually had the privilege of owning one and two pre-doodle bugs.  The first time I ever heard about a doodle bug was from my neighbor and mentor Dave.  Dave was our closest neighbor. He was five years older than I was and he was always doing or building something really neat.

One day while Greg and I were walking home from the poultry farm,  we noticed Dave had an old pickup in his dooryard that he was working on.  It didn’t take Greg or me very long to be standing by the pickup pestering Dave with a bunch of questions.   “What ya got there?” I asked, and Dave said a “doodle bug”  “Huh”, I said, “it looks a lot like an old rusted out beat up pickup to me.”  “That”, Dave said, “is because you are an idiot, now leave me alone.”  “C’mon Dave”, I blurted out, “I want to help.  “No, you’ll just get in the way, like you always do.”  “No. I won’t. Pleeeese.” “Well okay, but you must promise you will do everything I say.”  Only later did it come to my attention that was a promise I should not have made.

Dave’s doodle bug started life as a 1938 Ford pickup and by the time Dave got it, its life was almost over.  The fenders were falling off, the doors no longer stayed closed and there were big holes in the bed of the truck and down through the floor of the cab.  And the engine smoked so bad that after a minute of running you could no longer see the truck.

The first thing I helped Dave with was to strip the body of all unnecessary metal.  This took a couple of days and when we were done all that was left of the original truck was the firewall, which still had the gauges,  the brake, clutch and gas pedals, the emergency brake, shifting lever and the four wheels.  Dave wanted to shorten the wheel base but wasn’t sure what he should do with the gas tank so we removed the front seat, which was falling down through the floor anyways,  and laid the gas tank sideways right behind the firewall.  We then  placed a blanket on it for cushion and called it a seat.

Somewhere Dave got his hands on a 1950 Ford flat head V8 which he rebuilt in shop class at Peacham Academy.  With help from some big kids from the Academy, Dave got the rebuilt engine in his soon to be running doodle bug.  Luckily for Dave, I happened  to show up the day he tried to get the engine running.  Dave had been working on it for a while but he didn’t seem to be having much luck.  It sure sounded like it wanted to run but just wouldn’t go.  Finally Dave said, “I don’t think it is getting any spark.”  ( A phrase I would use countless times after that.)  I said, “What do you mean not getting spark?”  “Well”, Dave, grumbled,  “you need to have an electrical spark come out of the coil, go into the distributor cap and from there the rotor will send it to the cylinder that is on compression.”  I said, “Oh yea”, like I knew what he was taking about.  Dave then said,”We better figure out where the problem is.”  “Yea, I blurted out, “And just how are we going to do that?”  Dave pulled the coil wire out of the distributor and said, “Here hold onto this wire and I’ll show you.”  Dave then reached over the firewall and pushed on the starter button.  I got up off the ground, brushed myself off and said, “Wow does that ever hurt.” “Well, Dave said, “we now know there is a really good spark coming out of the coil.”

Next Dave climbed off the engine and crossed his arms as he stood there thinking for a moment.  That is when I heard a little ouch and Dave reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the ignition rotor which he had put there when he adjusted the points.  “There”, Dave said, ” is another important lesson for you,  always put small parts in your pocket when you work on cars or you might knock them off the engine and loose them. Now give me that screw driver so I can take the distributor cap off and put the rotor back in place.”  Dave then sat behind the steering wheel, hit the starter button again and the engine fired to life.

After a few more adjustments, we hopped onto the gas tank and headed for the back field, a field that had been mowed a few weeks earlier.  This field was out of sight of the farm and one that his dad, Claude,  probably wouldn’t look at for a while,  hopefully after our tire marks had disappeared.   This back field was mostly a steep hill with a level flat spot at the base of it and at the end of this flat spot was a large stone wall that had stood for a hundred years or more.  This doodle bug ran like a top and shot up the hill with very little effort and I swear we even gained speed as we went up.  Once at the top Dave took about six turns on the steering wheel before the doodle bug even began to change direction.  “Remind me to look at that when we get back”, Dave hollered at me.  When ever you were  near the doodle bug and it was running you had to yell; there was no exhaust on it.    “OK”, I yelled back.

Once we got turned around Dave tromped onto the gas to see just how much power it had and to see how far he could make the rear wheels spin.  About a third of the way down the hill the doodle bug caught up with the wheels and Dave figured it was time to start slowing down.  That was about the time we found out that six inch high grass, when wet with dew, is almost as slippery as ice.  Especially when the tread on the tire was something that used to be there years before.  It didn’t take long to get to the flat spot at the foot of the hill and the stone wall was coming up fast.  The loud screaming was hurting my ears so I covered my left ear with my left hand and my eyes with the other hand and closed my mouth as tight as I could. I sure didn’t want to get picked on by Dave for screaming like a baby,  but the screaming continued to ring in my ears.  I then worked up enough nerve to peak out through my fingers that covered my eyes.  Dave’s mouth was wide open, the whites of his eyes were showing and his face was all twisted and looked hideous.  He was pushing on the brake pedal with both feet and his hands were just a blur as he cranked on the steering wheel,  trying to keep the doodle bug going somewhat straight.  Once again I closed my eyes and this time I took up religion.  A few moments later the wind against my face stopped and all I could feel was a violent shaking.  Cautiously I opened my eyes.  Dave knuckles were as white as his face and both feet were still trying to push the brake pedal through the floor board. After a few more seconds I was able to force my heart out of my throat and back down into my chest and I yelled at Dave,  “Oh Man, I got to get me one of these.”