Float and first fire.
the old hoss mercury project - page ii
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Last updated June 1, 2020.
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Homecoming!
And she's home!

Folk are different out here. They still don't mind
making an honest day's wage. The Merc floated
over a hundred miles Saturday for a very
reasonable price; a deal struck where neither
party felt as if they were being somehow boned.

Imagine such a world. It existed once.

Although the Mercury was deposited on what's
technically municipal property at the end of the
drive, I wasn't exactly worried about leaving her
there overnight.

We're not in Toronto anymore, Dorothy. There
are no by-law officers or their complicit tow scum
bum buddies skulking seven miles up the
two-track here to the homestead in the early
morning hours.

Still, I wanted her unambiguously on the property.

Scratching my head; I'm alone. She wouldn't push
by hand.

I contemplated trying to push her with a tire
between the bumper and the Crown Vic's grille,
but I'm older and (somewhat) wiser than I once
was, and twenty first century plastic cars were
never meant to push trucks with manly-man
bumpers.

As well driverless trucks on grades, however
slight. That pesky house potentially in the way.

In the end I decided to wrench on her and see if
she'd fire after .. Well, I don't know how many
years - or possibly decades.

There's really not a whole lot to necromancing an
old school carbureted straight-six with Kettering
points ignition - assuming the cylinders aren't full
of water - or badgers.

A half an hour of fecking about, shooing giant
spiders, freeing up seized points and the choke
plate. A "fresh" battery liberated from one of the
other lawn ornaments, and a few drops of cool
refreshing guzzoline.

OBDII? Com-pu-ter?

That's Roddenberry talk friend.
There she goes and here she be.

Thank you Jim McClement from RR Auto, Killaloe ON for
bringing her home safe.
In my personal opinion, the word "patina" has become
synonymous with pretentious asshole in the car world -
at least since the passing of the great Gray Baskerville.

Indeed, now folk actually sanding down intact paint work
for that flash rust look.

This inner door panel however; this is the real deal. The
paint worn to bare metal from half of a century of
forearm resting.

On t'other side of the yard of course, the "I shit dollar
bills, must look showroom" restoration crowd who would
certainly ghost this wonderful history.

This is golden! Whatever I make of this truck, this will
remain unmolested.
Sometimes things look worse than they are - sometimes
they're worse than they look. This falls squarely into the
former catagorie.

Aye, the floor from seat to firewall, two inches of firewall,
cab corners, cab mounts, cab cross members, and a few
bits here and there resemble about what I'd like to
imagine Jolene Blalock wears to bed, but none of this is
unobtanium, and the replacement process is neither
complicated, or relatively speaking - time consuming.

If I had a garage.

Working out doors will certainly complicate affairs.
It appears that this truck somehow rotted from the
inside-out. Indeed the kick panels and bottom of the box
are still perfect.

Look at that frame! If not mint, to be certain no worse
than you`d expect from a California car. I had expected
a deeply pitted mess.

Frankly, I almost feel guilty for getting this truck for
"free". Here, it's worth four to six grand in it's present
condition.

Fair enough though that the owner was by no means an
idiot and knows this as well - and that I would have paid.

To me this is priceless.

This truck was "a gift" presumably because he knew my
Grandfather, and knew exactly what this truck would
mean to me.
A spare engine complete from carb to coil, grille, floor
pan sheet metal, cab corners, and assorted bits that I
still have yet to discover.

Clearly the owner had intended to restore her.

The $300 "price" reflecting that he would have no use,
and be out of pocket for these parts after giving me the
truck. "Would I mind.. ?"

There are not too many people like this left in the world I
suspect.

Thank you Richard. I know that you know what this
means to me .. but you'll never know what this meant to
me.
Quick! Call the SPCA - Dog left in truck on hot day.

A totally gratuitous photograph of the Big Murph sitting
in Old Hoss. There's something about this .. a cosmic
convergence?

It occurred to me that a generation of dog is not their
mean lifespan, but only a few years. Twenty generations
of Murphys since 'Hoss rolled off the assembly line, but
in the end - they both ended up where they belong.
The first start -->
Best drive ever -->
After seeing her in Eganville three weeks ago, I
had entertained the thought that a few hours of
TLC and bailing wire might very well allow her to
make it home under her own power despite the
missing metalwork.

Hell, I've had daily drivers with bigger holes than
these.

Closer inspection yesterday however, confirms
that a float was in fact the correct choice.

Still. I did get to "drive" her - albeit only 90 feet up
the drive.
Welcome home Old Hoss. Now to begin
bandaging those ouchies.