Tag Archives: Ford

Aircraft, America, History, Navy, Old Man Jack, World War II, WWII

Old Man Jack-ism #7

29 Comments

Whhhoooo-eee!

c-10-56

I have been remiss in visiting Old Man Jack; when I arrived there today, I made sure he heard my Mustang he loved to ride in so much…  I hope his now silent neighbors didn’t mind too much.  As I neared his resting place walking on very sodden soil, it was clear I was his last visitor from some months ago.  The grass had definitely encroached on his gravestone; even the hole where the water decanter should be seen was covered up.

As I trimmed away the overgrown grass, I fondly remembered a “Whhhoooo-eee!” Old Man Jack let out once.   That one time, he had an extra emphasis on the “Whhhoooo”… with even more of a sopranic “eee” at the end.  He then proceeded to tell me about how his old man kept him in line as a boy while handing me something from his past.  More on that later.

And that word’s made up, you know…”sopranic”.  But for that moment, he was definitely Julie Andrews. 🙂

___________________________

In our chats in his cluttered garage, Old Man Jack used to tell me how he used to “tussle” a lot while growing up in Glendale, CA.  You know.  Fight.  He wasn’t embarrassed to say he took a lickin’ – once in a while.  He frequently said one reason why he took a lickin’ was that he was a runt so he took up body building for protection – as well as for the girls.  He had flashed his trademark grin while gently shaking his head fondly left and right as while talking about his youthful adventures; you wonder what crazy memories flashed in his mind filled with life’s wisdom to power that grin.

He reminisced that his dad was also a bit of a trouble maker, especially when he had a bit too much libation but that he was the family enforcer.  Old Man Jack said his dad was also a sailor – a baker in the US Navy to be exact but he also had worked as a barber.  They were together out in the SW Pacific during the war but on different islands.  He said his dad would once in a while send him a cake and cookies on a B-25 Mitchell that was making some kind of supply run.  Old Man Jack instantly became the most loved sailor on that island when the cake and cookies were unloaded… provided the pilots didn’t eat them along the way.

lee whitty garrett Sept 1 1945
Old Man Jack’s father was Lee Whitty Garrett and can be found on line 11 corroborating his story. You can clearly see he was a baker on the destroyer tender USS Markab’s Muster Roll, dated Sept. 1, 1945.  He survived the war, too, and was on his way home.

_______________________________

On the way to visit him at his resting place, I decided to listen to the news.  Well actually, the only time I can hear the news is while in my Mustang is stopped at a light – the exhaust isn’t exactly quiet (listen below)… and in that brief instant, the newscaster reported again about a pro sports figure and an alleged “beating” he gave his son.  I turned it off as I am tired of the media making a circus out of every perceived “socially incorrect” behavior.  Of course, I wouldn’t know of the intimate details of the allegations.  Can’t trust the media, you know.

Don’t get me wrong.  I sure as hell don’t condone BEATING a kid.  No way.  But… I believe there is nothing wrong with a spanking – or a “whippin'” as Old Man Jack’s generation used to say.  Because of the social pressures exerted by a faction of our culture, taking a hand – any kind of hand – to your child means police show up at your door – at least here in California.  “Positive reinforcement” goes only as far as your front door.

There is nothing wrong with a good spanking, in my opinion…  Or, when I was going to junior high school, it was called a “swatting”.  There was our PE teacher, a Mr. T.  He had a swat board the size of Rhode Island made out of balsa wood thicker than Arnold Schwarzenegger’s biceps.  It was even taped at the handle to enhance the grip for his elephant sized hands AND he had several large holes drilled into the paddle section to increase the device’s aerodynamic characteristics, i.e., more paddle speed, more pain.  I’m positive he had its aerodynamics tested in a wind tunnel.  If any of my male high school buddies are reading this, they know exactly what I’m talking about.  I think the paddle section was even painted black.  All the PE teachers carried one of their own design.

Believe me, the threat of a swat kept MANY a kid in line…  meaning they really gave it a thought before crossing that line and risk getting caught – and greeting the aerodynamically enhanced swat from Mr. T.  One benefit was it taught respect – the hard way.

Frankly, the prohibition of spanking – in my opinion – has contributed to the growing disrespect and behavioral problems being shown by many of today’s younger folks.  A kid never gets a well deserved licking, i.e., pain, if you did something bad.  All a kid gets now is a painless lesson in positive reinforcement or detention.  No pain, you gained.  You learned it was OK to whine, too.

______________________________

But back to his “Whhhoooo-eee”…

As Old Man Jack belted out the whhhooo-eee, he handed me this; it has been hanging safe and sound in my hall closet since he gave it to me:

c-10-57
Its two feet long and is used to sharpen a barber’s straight edge razor.

It’s a barber’s leather razor blade sharpening strop (not strap).  Specifically, a “Scotch Lassie”; it was his father’s:

c-10-58
His Scotch Lassie with Old Man Jack’s second love in the background – the F4U Corsair from WWII.

While I wasn’t clear if this was the one that was used or not, Old Man Jack got a whippin’ with this on occasion from his dad…the same one who sent him cakes and cookies out in the Pacific during a vicious war.  From a couple of the stories he told me, it sure sounds like he deserved the whippings and therefore, the reason for his whhhoooo-eee.  And you know what?  Old Man Jack turned out to be one helluva respectful and forgiving man.

Remembering he was giving me that trademark grin while handing it to me, he said something to the effect of, “Koji, I’ll tell ya…  The thought of getting another whippin’ from my dad sure kept me from getting into more trouble…but not ALL the time.”  Knowing Old Man Jack well by then, it made me grin, too.

With that, he said it was time for him to part with it, to move on and that he wanted me to keep it… if I wanted it.

Knowing how it was an intimate guiding influence of how this great man turned out to be as he was, of course I did.  I think he was glad.

But I sure miss his trademark grin and I think he misses my cigar in return… but not the whippin’ I gave him when he challenged me at stop lights in HIS ’68 Mustang on our way to breakfasts.

He hated getting whipped, you know.

c-10-59

America, Cars, Cooking, Family, Food, Photography

Hamburgers and a ’63 Merc

38 Comments

MM burger
Marilyn Monroe eating an old-fashioned hamburger at a drive-in hamburger stand. Photo by Philippe Halsman.

Nearly all Americans would agree that hamburgers are the All-American icon.  A simple grilled ground beef patty, salted and peppered, slathered with mayo, mustard and ketchup then sandwiched in a plain bun.

At least that’s how I know them.  Oh, hold the pickles, please.

Now, us kids that grew up watching “Bewitched” and “I Dream of Jeannie” have given birth to a generation that has taken a simple thing and made them into $15 gourmet, fancied-up, mushroom-covered (expensive) cuisine.  Do you think I like Elizabeth Montgomery and Barbara Eden?  Drool…

But I don’t know if I like the “change”.

Back to this in a minute, folks.

The fancy hamburgers – not the drool.

___________________________

Dad had always owned Fords when he could finally afford getting a car.  I guess that’s where I get my Ford passion from.

July 5, 1955
Aunt Eiko holding me in front of my dad’s Ford Consul automobile. If you are reading my past stories about WWII, you will know that only the occupying Americans could afford to buy a car. Her husband was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal.  Occupied Japan, Tokyo, July 5, 1955.
Enoshima Beach, Tokyo - April 1957
My dad’s ’57 Ford Fairlane parked on Enoshima Beach, Tokyo. I’m thinking it was a dark green. April 1957.

After leaving Japan for the last time  in the late ‘50’s after the Occupation ended, my pop bought his first new car stateside in 1963 – he was 44 years old.  It was a two door Cascade Blue 1963 Mercury Meteor custom hardtop; a king of obscurity to say the least, but to a kid of about ten, it was Flash Gordon’s rocket ship.  Unlike Hillary, it was easy to love this car.

1964 or 1965 / Dad's new 1963 Mercury Meteor
On a road trip to Chicago in 1964. I’m still holding onto my Fujipet camera with dad’s 1963 Mercury Meteor behind us. This may have been in Utah.

Don’t get me wrong.  It wouldn’t get a choice spot if valet parked.  I say wouldn’t as my old man couldn’t afford valet, let alone a family dinner out.  But to me, the rocket ship had a chrome finish AM push-button radio – turn the dial on the right, find a station, pull out a button, then push it back in to set it.  Trouble is I did it a dozen times each time I got into the car.  But all I cared about was KFI 640 AM, the Dodgers’ station.  The golden voice of Vin Scully… and Fairly, Gilliam, Wills and I forget who played third.  They were World Series champs that year.

Six adults could get into this rocket ship with room to spare – eight of us little Japanese folks and a dog.  The cargo hold in back swallowed up my Sears JC Higgins bike in one gulp with enough space leftover for Frank Howard.  (I saw him hit the scoreboard in right field with a home run.)

Unless my aging grey matter is dissolving at warp speed (maybe it is), there were ash trays with shiny covers in each armrest…and this was for the back seats.  It was a favorite depository for my Bazooka chewing gum but I kept the wax covered cartoon that came with it.

Pop kept it for quite some time.  I passed my driver’s license test in it on my 16th birthday.  I got a 96 only because she claimed I never looked in the rear view mirror.  Poppy cock.  I always look in the rear view mirror for cops.  Even back then.

And as it was the only car we had back then, I also drove my date to one of my senior proms in it (I went to two.).  And the answer is, “No,” if anyone was wondering…but I’m sure she was disappointed.  Well, maybe not.

The four-wheel drum brakes were spectacular…not.  Instead of rubber meets the road, it was like rubber met the world’s supply of Vaseline while fighting the pull to the left… and this was at 25 mph.  Steering?  An oil tanker’s captain would do well.  Turn the wheel a lot; see the slight change in direction a few seconds later.  Pat Brady and Nellybelle turned better – and that was out in the desert on sand.

meteor engine
The Mercury Meteor’s 260 cid V-8.

I overhauled the epoch 164 hp 260 cid V8 sometime around 1976 in our garage.  At 13 years of age, she had become an old girl.  She had become a V6, meaning it had lost compression in two cylinders.  I remember setting zero lash, then three-quarters turn of the ratchet for the hydraulic lifters during the overhaul.  The distributor was the biggest headache, of all things.  It was like extracting an impacted molar and only after using copious amounts of Liquid Wrench in place of laughing gas did it finally come out.  “Older” Blue Oval guys know what I’m describing.

___________________________

Back to today’s elegant hamburgers and change.

Instead of the push-pull AM radio, my youngest son – who was seven when I bought it – similarly discovered my ’08 Mustang GT had a “My Color” dashboard light feature.  Now I know how my pop felt as my son forced me to experience every color of the rainbow while driving at night – every time.  It was like being at an all-night disco club.

Bazooka bubble gum and ashtrays are no more but treasure hunters will be pleased after exploring the map pockets.  No disappointments there.  I promise… especially after my little Cake Boss had sat in the back.  Latex gloves are highly recommended before exploring.

Overhaul it?  After all, my GT’s got a 281 V8, only twenty-one more cubes than my pop’s…but it pumps out a magnificent 505 hp thanks to her Roush supercharger and Carmen pulley.  Hell, I’m afraid to change spark plugs.  Who would imagine in 1963 there would be a TSB on just how to R&R spark plugs?

roush blower
My Roush supercharger and gizmos.

And unlike my pop’s ’63 Merc which ran on simple mechanical principles (but threw physics principles out the window for the so-called braking), the computing power in my Mustang would cause Einstein to strike a pose like Captain Morgan.

And today’s stunning braking power is the true reason for seat belts – it compassionately keeps your head from being continually used to redesign the windshield.  The aftermarket Wilwood six-piston disc brakes I installed with slotted and cross-drilled rotors exacerbates the stop-on-a-dime tendencies… which is a good thing.

270768_1922679229805_1326818011_31876806_6107098_n
The Wilwood Six Piston disc brakes on my Mustang.

____________________________

So it appears the delicious, basic hamburger of the 1960’s has been brought into the 21st Century.  Kids that watched Elizabeth Montgomery and Barbara Eden fooled with the wonderfully simple ground beef and bread formula to give us today’s foodie gourmet burger…and we can still listen to Vinny’s golden voice, to boot.  Glorious.

And well, with 505 hp at the crank instead of 164 hp, it’s hard to complain.  Neither do my kids when they hear the whine of my Roush supercharger.  They like to scream.  But it’s a shame my pop’s ’63 Mercury Meteor won’t be swept into anyone’s museum.

__________________________

I guess technology has its benefits.

I’ll take a gourmet burger in the end after all.

Pass the Heinz ketchup, please.

At least that hasn’t changed.

America, Children, Family, Ford Mustang, History, Kids, Marines, Military, Navy, Rights, Uncategorized, World War II, WWII

I Take Exception, Mr. President

19 Comments

adams white house
The White House as it looked when President Adams occupied it.
whitehousehistory.org

Mr. President, I take exception to your leadership.  I feel it is flawed.

You are supposed to be MY president.

My fellow Mustang buddy’s president.  He’s Black and has a doctorate.  Oh.  He’s married to a Middle Eastern lady – who screams while sitting shotgun in his grossly overpowered car.

My neighbor’s president.  He’s Hispanic, an American citizen and is in the USAF (and who got his pay cut due to The (Dumb) Sequester.)

My blogging friend’s president.  She is Irish with blazing red hair.

Yes, even #41 and #43’s president.  They are Caucasian and BOTH served in the Armed Forces.  Hell, #41 was shot down and lost his two crew members.  Like Old Man Jack, even he must’ve had nightmares for the rest of his life.

You are the elected person to represent ALL of us…together.

But do you?

_________________________

Yes, I voted for the other guy.  Glad that’s out in the open.  Whew.  Now hate me.

But all through your campaigns and years in office, you have made it a point to distinguish (imply?) yourself to be Black…and rarely or never infer that you are “White”.

How can that be, Mr. President?  Your mother was White.  Your father was Black.

To me, that’s 50%-50%.

parents
President Obama’s parents

It’s simple math.  The same simple math taught in school.  Well, pardon me.  Not too many folks recall seeing you in class.

Perhaps you ditched classes, Mr. President, just like my angelic oldest daughter..?  But my oldest daughter got straight A’s.  I’ll let you see her report card if you’ll show me your transcripts.

So I excuse you on your mathematical error.

________________________

Trayvon Martin died on February 26, 2012.

On March 23, 2012, you said on national TV:

“But my main message is to the parents of Trayvon Martin. If I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon. And I think they are right to expect that all of us as Americans are going to take this with the seriousness it deserves, and that we’re going to get to the bottom of exactly what happened.”  (Note: President Obama, the LOCAL authorities and DA DID get to the bottom of exactly what happened shortly after the shooting, right?)

After the verdict was read, you made another statement.  On July 20, 2013, you said:

“When Trayvon Martin was first shot, I said that this could have been my son,” Obama said. “Another way of saying that is Trayvon Martin could have been me 35 years ago.”

t m obama
First speech mentioning Trayvon Martin.

_______________________

The Zimmerman/Martin fight took place in a smaller township called Sanford, FL.  The local – LOCAL – authorities concluded there was not enough evidence to hold or charge Zimmerman under their STATE laws.

But alas…  The MEDIA was a huge contributor.  In my opinion, it was primarily CNN who started a fire where there should have been none.  Day after day, they tried to “stir the pot”, as they say.  RACE came into the limelight thanks to CNN fueling the self-grown fire.

Then Obama’s ill-advised comment…  RACE again.  He’s HALF-WHITE.

______________________

Race is one thing contributing to the deepening divide amongst our citizens.

In his first speech, he fueled the frenzy with those words, “…and that we’re going to get to the bottom of exactly what happened.”

Who is “we’re”?  Him?  The Feds?  It fell under state and LOCAL jurisdiction.  And the local law enforcement and DA – closest to the case and evidence – had closed its case.

Obama and CNN was pouring copious amounts of salt onto a festering wound.

By the way…  How does CNN pick which murder to sensationalize?  Why didn’t CNN sensationalize this more recent one – of four Blacks killing an unarmed White college student:

I am curious why you did not come out in front of our nation and say, “If I had a son, he’d look like Joshua Proutey.”

_____________________

In closing, how DARE Obama distinguish himself from me implying Trayvon Martin could have been his son – for whatever reason – in front of our country.

You are supposed to be MY president.

You are to lead us… represent all of us… and not imply “favoring” one race over another.

How do you bring this together instead of dividing it?

Simple.  Like this:

20011017-15
THIS is how YOU should lead OUR country, Mr. Obama.
(White House Archives)

___________________________

Face it.  There are racists.

White people who hate other races.  Blacks who hate other races.  Asians who hate other races.

Lead us.  Tell us citizens to quell this lunacy…and get off the minority soap box at the same time.

ps   PLEASE PAY MY USAF BUDDY.  HE IS IN HARM’S WAY AND WORKING TO PROTECT US.  HE IS NOT HOLDING HIS HAND OUT LIKE 47 MILLION OTHERS ARE.

Automobiles, Cars, Ford, Ford Mustang

Nuckin’ Futs

15 Comments

Nuckin’ Futs.

That’s the name of an old man.

An old and round Asian man.

Nuckin’ Futs

Only Nuckin’ Futs would drive an orange car…with a wing in the back.

Loud.  Low.

It was so low a cigarette pack couldn’t squeeze under it

Windows in the “you-have-the-right-to-pull-me-over” tint.

Photo by Drew Phillips

In the land of the California Highway Patrol.  LAPD.  LACS.

They love Nuckin’ Futs…a lot.

LEO’s love Nuckin’ Futs’ loud orange car

Why is that?

Polished Roushcharger with polished 2.57″ Carmen pulley; 505 HP VMP tune

Supercharger with pulley

Roush Cold Air Intake

PVD Black Chrome Moroso tanks and valve covers

Car stops on a yen.  Wilwood six-pistons with 14″ slotted and cross-drilled rotors and “Red Stuff” pads with fat Yokohama S.drives

Nuckin’ Futs gets to sit on full six-way power and HEATED leather seats…as does Nuckin’ Futs’ little girl on the way to school…

…while looking at Jack Roush’s signature in front of her.

Mr. Roush signing Nuckin’ Futs’ car

Before the before the “Before the Boo Boo” Now look.  You got it, yes?

Before the before the “Before the Boo Boo” Now look

Before the “Before the Boo Boo” Now look.  Nuckin’ Futs behind the wheel.  Only four of these body kits were in the US; the other three were on show cars.

Photo by Drew Phillips.

Before the Now look

Ouch. 12:30 AM near Gilroy, CA.

The Now Look

Just for fun – anyone see “Cars”?  See ya.

A summary of the larger mods for gear heads

World War II

Old Man Jack, Me and Mustangs

17 Comments

There wasn’t a mean bone in his body – provided you were on his good side.

Old Man Jack was a devoted husband.  His wife Carol was bedridden for the last several years of their life together; without fail, Jack stayed at her side

He would only leave her side to get medicines or their meal in his beloved ’68 Mustang (with a 351 Windsor engine).  And that was one love we shared – Ford Mustangs.

Painted blue

______________________

After she passed, we would go out for weekend breakfasts.

When he wanted to, he would ride in my supercharged ’08 Grabber Orange Mustang.  He loved riding in it.  He loved listening to it.  It was so loud, Jack wouldn’t need his blessed hearing aids – which he often “forgot” to wear.  He hated them.  Trouble was at breakfast, I’d end up having to yell so he could hear me when he “forgot” to wear them.  So could everyone else.  The others must have thought, “Man, what an odd pair.”

That famous boyish grin… I sure miss him.

When I would drive, Old Man Jack –  in his trademark blue plaid shirt – would look at me from his passenger seat, flash that boyish Jack grin where the right side of his lip would be higher than his left, press his head back into the seat, then say, “OK!  Floor it!”  Man, he loved it.  My supercharger would be screaming as we rocketed down Studebaker Road.  He would say in a (much) higher than normal voice, “Whooo-ee!” after hitting 60 mph in a little over four seconds.

______________________

Other times – even at 87 years of age – he would want to drive HIS baby to breakfast…but make me drive mine, too.  You guessed it – we’d drag.

On the way to breakfast, we’d pull up to a light early on a Sunday morning and knowing what was going to happen, I prayed with all my might there were no black and whites.

He’d look at me.  I’d look at him.  He was dead serious but I would never let him see I was grinning from ear to ear.  The light would turn green.  He’d floor it, chirp his tires and I’d let him get almost through the intersection…when I would nail it.  I wasn’t going to let him get that far ahead of me.

I’d blow by him.  As I would wait for him at the next stop, he would pull up next to me knowing he got beat (again), flash me that boyish grin one more time – but would always flash me his trademark bird.  I just missed it this time.  Darn.

After he lost yet another drag race, I just missed photographing Jack flashing his “bird” by a split second…but not his trademark smile.

By the way… I named my last boy after him…  His name is Jack.  I couldn’t think of a better name.

____________________

Jack, I miss our breakfasts.  We should have went more often…  but I gun my motor real loud every time I stop by to see you.  I know you hate your hearing aids.

Resting Place