Chapter 66 - Signal Hill and the Model T Ford Hill Climb
His name was Joe Crannell. He was a tall, black man; skinny as a rail. And he probably was the best stone mason in the world, at least in my young estimation…except his entire world was Amherst County, Virginia. He had helped my dad build our rock house in 1939, and had come back often to have supper with us as he was a family friend. During the war, he had worked on our summer house, our out-door fireplace, and our goldfish pond…and he always used granite…the field stones that he found on farms up near High Peak Orchard, where they had been unearthed and rolled aside by plows over the generations and left stacked by the roadside, unwanted.
When dad decided to expand and rebuild our garage in 1951, Joe, then an old man, was called to duty again. Stone masonry was a hobby for dad, but for Joe, it was serious business and what he could sculpt with a hammer against a rock was incredible….shaping each stone to exacting dimensions by sight alone, knowing precisely how the grain ran and where to strike it. He wore an old brown fedora, the trim ribbon stained with sweat, and high-backs (overalls) that were always spotless. He drove a 1925 Model TT Ford oak bodied truck that he used to deliver block ice for the Diamond Ice Company…and haul the stone that he picked up for free while making the rounds. And Joe taught me how to drive it that hot summer while his mortar was curing on the garage walls…I’d driven a Farmall tractor before, but nothing built for the highways. My life was just beginning.
All Model Ts made from 1919 until the end of production in 1927, came with an electric starter (and headlights). But Joe was a purest, of sorts, and wanted me to learn how to start the engine with the crank. It would be in the afternoon when the truck had been parked in our driveway all day that we would try a “cold” start. With the ignition off and the handbrake in the back position, which engaged the brake and put the transmission in neutral, he had me walk to the front, pull the choke ring adjacent to the right fender while engaging the crank lever under the radiator at the front of the car, and slowly turn it a quarter-turn clockwise to prime the engine with fuel. I did this three times, left hand holding the choke open, right hand turning the crank. Then we returned to the cab where Joe had me turn the ignition key to the “battery” position…the coils now buzzing with current…move the spark advance lever under the steering wheel to the up (fully retarded) position, and move the throttle lever down slightly so the engine would be on high-idle when it started.
Then we returned to the front where I got a very harsh warning. He grabbed my right wrist and squeezed while he admonished; “Never…never…never use your right hand to crank start the motor…’cause if it back-fires (back kicks) your wrist is broken….or sometimes your arm!” Then he explained that I should engage the crank with my left hand, with my thumb under the handle, not gripping it, and ease the engine up to the beginning of a compression stroke at approximately the eight o’clock position. Then I should pull up sharply on the crank through the compression stroke to the twelve o’clock position where the engine should fire…immediately releasing the crank and moving my hand away. ONLY pull up on the left, do not go over the top and push down…or try to spin the engine with the crank, he had again warned. He then wanted me to demonstrate how I was to start the engine without actually doing it. I practiced until he was satisfied and he gave the OK. I got into position, moved the engine up with the crank and gave it a yank. And it started on the first pull! We were all smiles. He then had me advance the spark until the engine smoothed, adjust the throttle to idle and turn the ignition key from the battery position to “magneto”…now I was ready to learn to drive. And in less than an hour, I had it almost mastered, starting in low gear, shifting to high gear, using reverse gear, and braking…using three pedals on the floor and the three position hand brake…and I only stalled-out twice. We were using our side yard as the “proving grounds”…driving back and forth…sounding the old Klaxon (ah ooga), that Joe had taken off a junked Model A, in celebration….until my Aunt Ruby, who lived next door, came running to see what all the commotion was about. That ended the trial run for the day, but before the garage was finished, I could take Joe’s T all over the property. I was almost fifteen…and Amherst Road, US Route 29 North, was already calling.
When dad decided to expand and rebuild our garage in 1951, Joe, then an old man, was called to duty again. Stone masonry was a hobby for dad, but for Joe, it was serious business and what he could sculpt with a hammer against a rock was incredible….shaping each stone to exacting dimensions by sight alone, knowing precisely how the grain ran and where to strike it. He wore an old brown fedora, the trim ribbon stained with sweat, and high-backs (overalls) that were always spotless. He drove a 1925 Model TT Ford oak bodied truck that he used to deliver block ice for the Diamond Ice Company…and haul the stone that he picked up for free while making the rounds. And Joe taught me how to drive it that hot summer while his mortar was curing on the garage walls…I’d driven a Farmall tractor before, but nothing built for the highways. My life was just beginning.
All Model Ts made from 1919 until the end of production in 1927, came with an electric starter (and headlights). But Joe was a purest, of sorts, and wanted me to learn how to start the engine with the crank. It would be in the afternoon when the truck had been parked in our driveway all day that we would try a “cold” start. With the ignition off and the handbrake in the back position, which engaged the brake and put the transmission in neutral, he had me walk to the front, pull the choke ring adjacent to the right fender while engaging the crank lever under the radiator at the front of the car, and slowly turn it a quarter-turn clockwise to prime the engine with fuel. I did this three times, left hand holding the choke open, right hand turning the crank. Then we returned to the cab where Joe had me turn the ignition key to the “battery” position…the coils now buzzing with current…move the spark advance lever under the steering wheel to the up (fully retarded) position, and move the throttle lever down slightly so the engine would be on high-idle when it started.
Then we returned to the front where I got a very harsh warning. He grabbed my right wrist and squeezed while he admonished; “Never…never…never use your right hand to crank start the motor…’cause if it back-fires (back kicks) your wrist is broken….or sometimes your arm!” Then he explained that I should engage the crank with my left hand, with my thumb under the handle, not gripping it, and ease the engine up to the beginning of a compression stroke at approximately the eight o’clock position. Then I should pull up sharply on the crank through the compression stroke to the twelve o’clock position where the engine should fire…immediately releasing the crank and moving my hand away. ONLY pull up on the left, do not go over the top and push down…or try to spin the engine with the crank, he had again warned. He then wanted me to demonstrate how I was to start the engine without actually doing it. I practiced until he was satisfied and he gave the OK. I got into position, moved the engine up with the crank and gave it a yank. And it started on the first pull! We were all smiles. He then had me advance the spark until the engine smoothed, adjust the throttle to idle and turn the ignition key from the battery position to “magneto”…now I was ready to learn to drive. And in less than an hour, I had it almost mastered, starting in low gear, shifting to high gear, using reverse gear, and braking…using three pedals on the floor and the three position hand brake…and I only stalled-out twice. We were using our side yard as the “proving grounds”…driving back and forth…sounding the old Klaxon (ah ooga), that Joe had taken off a junked Model A, in celebration….until my Aunt Ruby, who lived next door, came running to see what all the commotion was about. That ended the trial run for the day, but before the garage was finished, I could take Joe’s T all over the property. I was almost fifteen…and Amherst Road, US Route 29 North, was already calling.
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