1932 Tudor

1932 Tudor

On loan courtesy of Casey Cornell:
Casey Cornell's 1932 Ford Tudor sedan was powered by a 312 cubic inch, 375 horsepower Ford Y-block with a five-speed transmission and V8 quick-change.
Coated with the stain of weather and time, it hung off-kilter by a single nail but still the message was clear: “Beware of the Dog.” A ring of dirt circled the knob, and the window was spattered with a haze, making it almost impossible to see inside.
Reaching out to knock, Don's hand recoiled with the shock of teeth snarling, eyes burning and the sounds of a possessed creature whose only desire was to kill you. “Down! Down!”
The door opened a crack. “Get down, damn it!” The door opens a little further.
There a man stood, unshaven with tobacco juice stains at the corners of his mouth. He was dressed in clothes that hadn't been washed—maybe never. He was 50 but looked 70. "What-a ya want?" he asked.
“We heard there was an old Ford out back and wondered if it was for sale?”
“’Got one in the back row: Damn good shape, don't ya know. Gotta let Killer get use ta ya first. Half wolf but as long as you're with me, it's safe. ’Named her after my brother Frank. He helped out in the yard before he went to prison.”
There's nothing more disconcerting than a huge black dog emitting a low guttural growl from a drooling mouth full of teeth, running circles around you all the way to the back of the junk yard.
Safely tucked away in the back alley of what would one day become the Rolling Bones Hot Rod Shop, she sat waiting. Don had thought it would someday be a father/son project, once Duane was old enough. But interest in the cars of the 50s won out, and the deuce two-door languished year after year.
Taking advantage of that old barn across the road from their farmhouse, Duane lost no time starting an auto repair business the minute he graduated from high school. As the years flew by, his business grew and eventually a new shop was built, leaving empty the one-time cow barn with the sedan still sitting in the very spot his father parked it all those years before.
As with many repair shops, cars and trucks no longer drivable began to pile up, and before long Cornell's Auto Parts was born. With Duane's untimely death, his son Casey, who shared his father's love for old cars, stepped in to take control of the business. About the same time Keith and I were making use of that same cow barn having found ourselves in a business of our own.
Reminiscing one Friday afternoon, Casey retold the story of the Tudor. Beers in hand, we found ourselves at the far end of the back alley leaning on her and making plans.
“She will be a great tribute to your grandfather and father," said Keith. Looking at Keith, Casey replied, “And to your father and older brother."
“What door number do you think you want, Casey?”
Pausing a moment, tears welled up in his eyes, “No number. She's going to be black, and she's going to be meaner than a junk yard dog.”