I grew up in a motorhead family.

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  1. RSie

    RSie Well-Known Member

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    Note: yeah I've had a few. Probably best to ignore my drunken post. Stop now.

    I was born in 1965. I'm the youngest of 8. My mom was the youngest of 12.
    The stuff I saw when I was a kid, looking back at it now, is fascinating.
    A 312 Ford engine hanging from the oak tree? Nothing unusual there.
    The time my brother Al had his pretty '63 Fairlane t-boned up into the porch a block away from home? Just another story.
    My pa with his '68 390 Merc wagon? Too damn many stories.
    My brother Dave pulling wheelies on grass in the back yard with his Pontiac? (brother Dave stories would take me ages).
    My brother Jim with his '68 Charger RT? He saved my life, literally, with that car when I was about 5 yrs. old.
    My brother Doc with his Dusters? (I never knew how fucking scary those were until Dave gave me a ride...no offense Doc).

    Don't get me started on sisters, aunts, uncles.

    Maybe I just need to write a book.

    If anyone's interested, I'll post more.

    Take care of yourselves, and thank you for all the knowledge you've given me.
     
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    • Mopar-Mitch

      Mopar-Mitch Well-Known Member

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      It's always good to remember the good old day's of our past, and the story's are always good to hear.
       
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      • MOPAR4Me

        MOPAR4Me FABO Gold Member FABO Gold Member

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        Well you got me, let’s start off with you sharing the details of how your brother with the 68 Charger RT saves your life.
         
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        • RSie

          RSie Well-Known Member

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          Ok, here it is.
          Please keep in mind though, this is a almost 50 yr. old memory of a 5 yr. old boy...some things are hazy. Also, this was a different time... some younger people would freak out about a few things.. but that was just the way things were in those days.
          A nice spring day in '71. I got out of Kindergarten in the afternoon, and with a gaggle of other kids, made my way the four city blocks home. My next older brother, Doc, decided to stay with the kids down the street, probably watching the 3 stooges on TV. I walked the next block home.
          When I got home, nobody was there... which was a bit odd, having 10 people living there (and usually others.. uncle or aunt, or some friends.. our house usually had at least 15 people in it). No big deal, I had been home alone for short times before.
          I wandered my way out to our old one-stall ramshackle garage.. this was before Pa put up the huge new garage.
          The weekend before, I had hung out with him in there while he was rebuilding a carb or something. I was fascinated with the air compressor.. just a little thing with an electric motor, belt to a compressor. Looked like fun blowing the air through the hose. So, out there by myself, I plugged it in. I was having fun blowing cobwebs off the walls, blowing dirt around, blowing it in my hair... typical kid stuff.

          I don't remember exactly how I did it.. but somehow, I got my fingers into the belt... and it pulled them into the pulley. The tension stopped the motor, with my fingers on the back side of the pulley, under the belt. My ring, middle, and index finger were under the belt.. I don't know how my pinky didn't wind up in there too.

          5 yr. old fingers are not very tough.

          I remember standing there looking at my hand, stuck in there, like it wasn't my hand.

          Then the pain hit. Screams ensued.

          The motor was still trying to turn, making an electrical rrrrrr noise. After a few minutes, it went up in a puff of smoke. I was still screaming. I could see my finger tips on the other side of the pulley, all at weird angles.

          I don't know how long I stood there screaming, having no idea what to do. I think it was about 20-30 minutes. I could not get my hand out.. and that, as it turned out, was a good thing.

          I hear Jim's Charger pull up in the driveway. He heard me screaming, ran into the garage.. "What's the matter?!?" .. he couldn't see around me. There was a haze of electric smoke in the air. He got to where he could see what was going on.. 'oh'.. he pulled the plug on the compressor.

          Jim put his hand on my shoulder, and made me look at him. "You need to settle down, and breath. Stop trying to pull your hand out. I'll get you out, but I have to do a few things first. I'll be right back. Do not try to get your hand out." And he took off. A few minutes later, I hear the Charger fire up again.. he turned it around in the yard, backed up to the garage and opened both doors wide. He came back into the garage, with an ice cube tray full of ice, and a bunch of towels. "Okay, here's what's gonna happen. I'm going to cut this belt, stick your hand in this tray, and put a towel on top of it. I'm going to push hard on your hand. Then we are going to WALK out to the car.. don't run!" He made me close my eyes, cut the belt, stuck my hand in the ice, and covered it with a towel. "Open your eyes, and we are going to walk to my car". He got me strapped in, and made me push on top of the towel with my good hand.

          Many, many laws were broken on the ride to the hospital. The way he took, one street had a hill going down about 10 feet, a level spot for about 10 feet, then another big drop. We never hit the level spot.

          By the time we got to the ER, I didn't care about my hand... I was having a blast in that Charger.

          I was a bloody mess when we got there. I remember trying to squeeze my legs together so I wouldn't get his seats all bloody.

          The Doc on the ER, said at first look, "I don't think I can save those fingers, but I'll try". I still have them all. I have nice scars between the first and second knuckle on my index and middle finger, and a scar that starts above my knuckle, runs through it and wraps around to my fingerprint on my ring finger. I have a knot on the side of that finger that still inflames sometimes, and the nail always grows out split.

          It's always a good reminder to me to be careful, and watch what I'm doing.

          I saw that Dr. years later when I was running around with his kid. When he saw me, he said "hey, let me look at your hand". He made me flex my fingers, poked the end of my ringer finger and asked if I could feel it.. told him I could. "Damn, I do good work!" with a grin. I agreed with him, and thanked him.

          As for the Charger: Jim was the second owner. It was painted that beautiful bronze color. 440, 4 spd., and I think 3.55 screws. The only thing that wasn't box stock was the guy had ran it out of coolant and warped a head. He had the heads machined down, and had the manifold machined down to match. I think Jim put a set of headers on it too. Later that summer, he was drag racing a Challenger, and the guy lost it and clipped him in the quarter panel. He took out a telephone pole and a fire hydrant... that bent hydrant was there for years. The car was scrap.
           
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          • Mopar-Mitch

            Mopar-Mitch Well-Known Member

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            Sorry about your fingers, but that's a great story! Thanks!
             
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            • RSie

              RSie Well-Known Member

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              My fingers are fine. Still have them all. Middle finger still works great when I need it to. :)
               
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              • Dartnut

                Dartnut Don't hate me because i'm beautiful

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                Great story!
                How about some more?
                BTW, i came from a motorhead family as well...........
                 
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                • RSie

                  RSie Well-Known Member

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                  A little shorter one. Might as well stay on Jim.
                  The next summer, he was running a '67 Buick Skylark (same internally as a '67 Chevelle). A nice light metallic blue 2 door with a small block.
                  One day, I was riding with him.. I was standing up in the front seat (seatbelts? Nobody wore those stupid things!). We were stopped at a stoplight.. a car pulled up next to us on the passenger side. Jim never looked over, just saw the fender of the car out of the corner of his eye.. slowly creeping to take off at the light. Light turns green, Jim takes off about half throttle... enough to chirp the tires a bit. He sees the fender of the other car out of the corner of his eye again creeping ahead of us, so he punches it.

                  Right about then, I exclaimed "Holy cow! We're racing a cop!"

                  I wound up in a heap under the dash from the rapid deceleration.
                   
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                  • Mopar-Mitch

                    Mopar-Mitch Well-Known Member

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                    Love them good old stories from the past!
                     
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                    • RSie

                      RSie Well-Known Member

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                      With tomorrow being Fathers day and all, I'll share on of Pa.
                      This is probably 1970 or '71.
                      Pa was a Ford guy. He didn't diss other US makes, but he was a Ford guy.
                      He bought a '68 Merc wagon, and I think he bought it brand new. If so, it was the only car I remember that he bought new. i have so many memories of that car..
                      Hot Rod magazine did a test on that 390 wagon.. and it smoked the hot Camaro.
                      My oldest sister Gayle, who was probably about 17 at the time, hit a mailbox with the passenger fender, and crinkled it in pretty good.
                      Pa wasn't mad.. full insurance!
                      So, he took it down to the Ford dealer. The replaced the fender... but it was darker than the rest of the car. Pa took it back in, and complained.. they repainted it. He comes home the next weekend (he drove truck, was gone from Monday morning to Friday afternoon).. and the fender was a lighter shade than the rest of the car. Has Jim take it back again. Next weekend, Pa comes home.. and the fender is darker than the rest of the car again.
                      Saturday morning, Dave and I rode with him back to the Ford dealer.. Pa pulled right into the shop, all the way past the bays with cars up on hoists. Reamed the manager a new ass in front of all the mechanics and body guys.
                      He got back in the car, threw it into reverse, and smoked the tires into a stall backwards. Then, he feathered the brakes, and punched it. Smoked the back tires enough to fill that whole shop with tire smoke.. and kept on smoking the tires, slowly, all the way out of that shop.
                      Me and Dave, in the front seat, just smiling at each other :)
                       
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                      • diymirage

                        diymirage HP@idle > hondaHP@redline

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                        im sorry, but ive been wanting to do this since post #1

                         
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                        • 4fortyDemon

                          4fortyDemon FABO Gold Member FABO Gold Member

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                          Awesome story about your dad and your brother Jim! What a great brother to rescue you.
                           
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                          • barbee6043

                            barbee6043 barbee 6043 FABO Gold Member

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                            What makes life good sometimes, is the memories.
                             
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