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Hot rods and high school
by Kent Fletcher
Once upon a time, in 1962, I believe, I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have a hot rod. Seems all the kids around me were into new cars and/or trucks, or not-so-new cars and/or trucks. Me? Hah! I had a hand-me-down from my brother, Jack, specifically a 1939 Plymouth. It was fun to drive, to a point, and it was quite unique--there wasn't another one around for miles and miles. It kinda-sorta looked like the old '40 Fords, but didn't have that smooth tail where the trunk was. It did have spring bumpers, and that was worth a lot, actually, especially when tangling with the likes of Sammy Mitchell.Anyway, I'd gotten this car when I got my driver's license a year or two before, and it was a great learning tool. Had the old lift-side hood flaps so one could check the oil and air filter and radiator water, all that jazz. The engine was a straight 6, flathead. The tranny was a standard three-speed in the floor. Vacuum windshield wipers. Foot starter. The tires were 16", running recaps. Good cheap transportation, really. And the gas mileage was pretty good, best I remember, but that was when gas was a mere 25 cents per gallon, or less! Remember those days?
I remember the day this hot rodding adventure took off. On my way to school, I picked up various and sundry people, including Edwin Carpenter, and Bill Havens, and Jody Correro, and maybe even Jim Goudelock. I was just starting to turn onto Highway 8 off First or Second Avenue, and the rings and/or valve guides, whatever, just let go. No compression at all, the motor just pooted out. So I parked on the side of the road, and we all walked the next few blocks to the high school. I was talking with L.S. Steen during the day, found out he had a tall A-frame in his backyard, something I could use to lift the engine out. I was also talking with George Campbell, and he told me he'd sell me a 331 Chrysler hemi engine for a paltry sum, and that he'd help me fit it in that old Plymouth.
A couple of weeks later, the car was out at Campbell's Lawnmower Shop on Highway 8 East, being readied for the big conversion. Several other things were also modified on the car, namely the front seats. They were removed to facilitate the engine installation, along with a different transmission ('50 Ford truck). But I decided not to reinstall the front seats, and had the first true 'bucket seat' in the Delta. The seat was a reclamation of something from the bowling alley, bolted to a 5-gallon inverted bucket. Never did get that thing solidly tied down, though, so it proved to be quite a task just to remain in a sitting position once the car was running again.
So a couple of months went by, had to get a drive shaft made in Clarksdale that was 'balanced' and true, had to get an adapter for the engine/transmission connection, had to cut out the fender wells to accommodate the 'new' engine, and like Ricky Collins said, after that I had 'flimsy fenders'. They were, too, being held up with bailing wire running just in front of the radiator.
The day finally came when I actually drove the car out of Campbell's parking lot for the last time, to return lots of times to visit and play. About the only problem I ever had with the car after that was in the brake department. I never installed mufflers on the thing, and the right-side exhaust manifold vented directly on the main brake line. In other words, after a while of constant running, the brake fluid turned to pure vapor. Not an easy task to stop a car without brakes of any kind. And of course, the emergency brake didn't work much better, if at all. I remember going down to O'Reilly to work some beanfields. The man we were following to the fields worked for Jimmy Sanders, and I just can't recall his name right. Anyway, there were four or five of us in the car. The man started slowing to turn at O'Reilly. I applied the brakes, and voila! NO BRAKES! I thought Kenny Overstreet was going to have a heart attack. Thankfully there wasn't any oncoming traffic, and Highway 61 was still two-lane at the time, with very deep ditches on both sides.I swerved around the man and let the engine start slowing us down. I tried downshifting, but the engine/tranny connection was kind of rough, so I probably coasted about a mile before being able to engage second gear. After about 5 minutes, we were back at O'Reilly, the man asked what happened, he was told, and we went on down to the fields. I made the trip back to Cleveland by way of the backroads later that day.
So, here was Kent Fletcher, the quiet young man who worked at a funeral home, becoming an oddity of sorts. Some several people, including JuJu Hardy and Ben Mitchell were constantly wanting to drag me, to see if any of my efforts were worth a hoot. JuJu had an old Studebaker, green in color I believe, that he ragged unmercifully. Ben's folks had a push-button Plymouth with a pretty good sized V8 in it. There were new streets on the west side of town, out where Parks Elementary School is now, but no houses. So after school, if I wasn't working at the funeral home, I'd head out there and work on my shift routine with the car, laying those 16" recaps all over the place.
The night finally arrived when I accepted Ben's challenge. We were at an Eagle Scout meeting at the old MP&L building on the corner of 8 and Cotton Row. Everyone was all hyped about the ensuing race. We all headed out #8 east of town, to where the new four-lane merged back into two lanes, right in front of the hospital, no less. Ben was in the right lane, I was in the left. Most everyone was in Ben's car, and I was by myself. Only one bucket seat, remember? Someone in Ben's car, might have been Eckward McKnight, dropped a handkerchief to start the race, and we peeled out. Ben got me in first gear, but when I double-clutched the old Ford tranny into second, well, the race was truly on. I even surprised myself. That old Plymouth sat down in the rear, I laid some more rubber, and I passed Ben like the wind. By this time we were just about to the bowling alley, and WHOA! there was a car in front of me. Cutting it really close, I swerved around that car, and only found out later the next day that a .38 pistol was pointed straight at my head when I went around.
Yes, I won the race, but I also quit racing the next day. My father, Johnny Fletcher, was the person who informed me of my near-fatal error. I apologized profusely both to him and to the man who nearly shot me. This one incident nearly cost me my life, and I learned a good lesson.
E-mail Kent
"Hotrods and High School":
Kent Fletcher
Arlington, Texas
YN1, USNR Retired
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