When I was a kid I remember sitting on the veranda of our house, across the street from a
park, one hot, sunny day, watching the cars go by. One car that passed by looked very
unusual. I found out later it was a 1948 Ford Business Coupe. The driver, whose name
was Gary, screeched to a halt, jumped out and opened the trunk while smoke poured out
as if the car was on fire. I ran across the street to see if I could help. As Gary frantically
worked on what seemed an electrical problem, I asked if there was anything I could do. It
seemed the tail light wires had fried. Gary asked if I had any electrical wire. I raced back
to the house and without even thinking grabbed a knife from the kitchen and cut the cord
off my mother's best floor lamp, and ran back to Gary and his car. He thanked me for the
wire and soon had the Coupe fixed, and he was off down the road. Little did I know that
this was my introduction into hot-rods. My life has changed drastically since then, but
Gary still owns that same old car these last 35 years. He's now keeping his car in my
brother's garage. So I asked my brother the other day if Gary was finished using
mother's lamp cord. Since I got no answer, my hunch is that he's still using it.

I come from a dysfunctional home. Because my parents separated and divorced, my
younger brother and I were left pretty much on our own. I dropped out of high school
and landed a job sorting mail at a downtown insurance company. This helped pay the
rent for the family house my brother and I took over renting when my parents split up.
As the insurance company was close to my grandmother's house I dropped in often on
the way home from work for a piece of her traditional raspberry pie. Looking out the
window, beside the table where I sat eating the pie, I noticed an old car in the neighbor's
yard. I found out it was a 1927 Essex four door. But what I did not know was that soon
this car would be mine. And within a short two years would be burning rubber down the
street with a 354 Hemi engine out of a 1956 Desoto under the hood backed by it's
famous push button automatic transmission and an Oldsmobile rear axle. Let me tell you
what happened.

By this time my buddy Eric, who was now friends with some of Gary's buddies who
were renting a garage in his back lane way to build their own hot rods, purchased a1931
Ford Town Sedan with a Cadillac engine in it. When he showed it to me I really felt the
pressure was on to get a hot rod too. My thoughts went back to that old Essex. Now
there was only one major problem. The guy who owned the car refused to sell it. And
though I pleaded with him in my own childish way the answer was an unequivocal
"NO". I figured come "hell or high water" I was going to get it. But how could I possibly
persuade the owner to sell it to me?

As I worked this problem over in my mind it didn't take me long to come up with a
somewhat underhanded scheme to help convince the owner he needed to sell. While I'll
be the first to admit this plan was not honest, yet due to my religious upbringing at the
time, I had absorbed the idea that the end justified whatever means you could come up
with. I don't believe I was aware that this kind of thinking was wrong so I began looking
for a chance to put my plan into action.

On one visit to my grandmother's I noticed the old Essex had been moved into a laneway
adjoining another of her neighbor's, beside a historic church. That evening I talked a
couple of my friends into helping me steal the radiator and grill shell proudly displaying
the name "Essex". This was a very nerve racking experience because I had never stolen
anything before. I kept these parts hidden for about two weeks. When I figured enough
time had passed, I decided to make another attempt at asking the owner if he'd sell that
old car.

Now my original idea or motive was not to steal anything. I simply needed some way to
persuade the owner to put the car up for sale. When I spoke to him this time, he seemed
more willing to part with the Essex, pointing out that the radiator and the grill-shell had
been stolen, and added that he didn't think they would be too difficult to find
somewhere. Of course he didn't know I already had them! I did feel a bit uncomfortable
admitting to myself that had the original grill and radiator been missing, when I first
noticed this old antique, I would never have considered buying it. Where could anyone
find parts like that for such an old clunker? But these thoughts didn't bother me for long.
We soon settled on a price of forty-dollars. At last the Essex was mine, complete with a
bill of sale from the owner. As I think about my apparent success in pulling off this deal
(heavily tipped in my favor) the question remained "Was the grill and radiator mine or
were they stolen property?" I'm not sure this question will ever be answered
satisfactorily mainly because two wrongs never make a right. In other words "the means
never justifies the end". Technically though, I owned the car. The radiator and the grill
shell in my possession were stolen property. They were not mine, as I had not paid for
them. But at the time, I rationalized that the transaction was legal, everybody was happy
and no one was hurt. I even convinced myself that I had done the gentleman a favor
because now he did not have to worry about thieves stealing parts off his car! Yet I was
the thief.

Once the car was mine, I called the local (police) towing outfit which I figured would
more than rectify this deal, and a new truck with all those big, shiny, warning lights
twirling away showed up and towed that old car to a garage I had rented. It was an
impressive scene. The shiny new tow truck with lights flashing, as if there was an
emergency, and the old rusty Essex following behind on two original tires, that amazingly
still held air after so many years of sitting, made a picture not easily forgotten.

My dad and his brother Leo came over to the garage to see what I was up too. You see, I
was the very first in our family of seven kids to buy a car. Naturally my dad, being a car
enthusiast, was eager to inspect the new vehicle I had just purchased. All I can remember
is that he and my uncle looked sadly disappointed. My father considered any kind of
rust as a bad sign, and that old Essex was pretty rusty. I figured with lots of tender
loving care the rust would all be scraped off and the car repainted (this included the
interior and exterior, not to mention the undercarriage which would need a complete
overhaul). Now of course, I can understand why my dad and uncle had serious doubts.
All I had was a chisel, hammer and a pair of vice-grips, a dirt floor garage, and that rusty
old clunker. I then set about with determined effort to undertake the tedious job of
dismantling and re-assembling the whole car.

It took me two years of solid work to get this done. Everyday I did something on that
car. In the winter when it was too cold I just sat on the running board, cleaned a part or
two and dreamed about what I'd do when it warmed up. One point my father did not
take into consideration at the time was that such a tremendous undertaking for a young
kid like me, with no mechanical experience but with a lot of enthusiasm, was keeping me
off the streets, and away from the gangs. I was just too busy to get into the kind of
trouble a lot of other kids in our neighborhood were into. I made friends with guys who
helped me see the project through with not only moral, but in one case even monetary
support. Finally the big moment arrived. A local mechanic certified everything I had
done, an ownership from the government authorities was obtained, the license plates
were installed and down the road I went. What a thrill it was! That rusty old Essex was
completely transformed. It was now nicely hand painted sky blue, boasted an
Oldsmobile rear axle painted white, a Chevrolet Handy Van front axle of the same color,
and a complete system of hydraulic brakes, a 1956 Chrysler Desoto Hemi motor and an
automatic transmission with push buttons for the controls too.

By this time I was working at a Litho Print outfit down by the Don River near the center
of town and used my Hot Rod to drive to work. One day my boss happened to see my
car. He walked around and carefully inspected it. "What kind of car did you say this is?"
he asked me, looking a bit puzzled. "A 1927 Essex" I answered. "What kind of a motor
do you have in it?" he queried again. "A Chrysler Hemi" I said. He scratched the back of
his head. "How did you ever manage to get a Chrysler Hemi into that old Essex?"
Shaking his head he headed inside. Well, it all started over that piece of delicious
raspberry pie at my grandmother's place. Staring at that old Essex from out her kitchen
window, I had envisioned it all.

Marcel St Germain

Comments, questions or criticisms are welcome.
Please write to the "The Saint" Box 50, Garland, Manitoba, Canada. ROL-OWO or call toll free 1-877-205-7052 or e-mail garland@mts.net Thank you!

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