This is what it’s like go for a ride in a car from 1909
One of the first cars to ever arrive in Maine, this beauty is still going strong.
David Clark turned the hand crank. Nothing happened. He gave it a few more spins, with more force this time, and the engine sputtered to life, roaring a bit and then tapering down into a low, slightly uneven purr.
The car looked more like a horse-drawn carriage than a car. Perched atop a trailer bed behind Clark and his wife Sharon’s truck, it would’ve been right at home in Mary Poppins or an early episode of Downton Abbey.
“My great-grandfather bought it from the Sears Roebuck catalog in 1909,’’ Sharon said, as she watched David maneuver it off the trailer.
“And my grandfather and he went down to the railyard when it came in,’’ she continued. “It was in pieces in a crate, so they took it home in a horse and buggy to South Jefferson.’’
Sharon says it was the first motorcar to ever call Jefferson, Maine home. In order to drive it, Sharon’s family had to go get gas in Gardiner, 20 miles away. They’d either drive the car there or take a horse and buggy and bring back the fuel.
The Clarks had just driven the heirloom vehicle in the Windsor Days parade on July 10. Firetrucks and ambulances were still lined up on the Windsor Fairgrounds in a stately line, having just tootled around the route themselves.
Sharon got in beside David and they trundled off in a big circle, showing off for me as I took photos, bumping along with the divots in the lawn. They came back around and stopped beside me.
“Want a ride?’’ David asked. I did.
I climbed up onto the weathered leather seat. It was cracked in places and some of the stitching was coming loose at the seams. The worn wood of the baseboards vibrated underneath my feet, and the iron gear shift trembled along with the hum of the engine where it protruded beside David in the driver’s seat.
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Sharon’s father, who inherited the car from his uncle, drove it as long as he could before he got too old.
“It takes a lot of strength in your legs to use the brake,’’ Sharon told me. ‘It was hard on his legs. So we took him through this parade on the back of the trailer when he couldn’t drive it anymore. His great-grandsons were riding with him. Twin boys. They were…three at the time? They’re seven now.’’
David began to drive the car. I held on to the wrought-iron arm rest as we picked up speed. He took us over to a dirt path that went around the outside of the horseracing track. There was no windshield, so dirt flew up into our faces, specs catching the sunlight and glittering as they flew by.
David said he fires up the car out about once every three to four months even if they aren’t driving it in a parade, just to keep it going. You can’t buy parts for it, so if something breaks, the Clarks have to get it specially made.
“My father-in-law put some piston rings in it once, but we had trouble with the carburetor on it,’’ David said. “So my cousin Ronald rebuilt it and it’s run perfect ever since.’’
We came back to the trailer. David began to drive up the ramp to put it back on the bed, but we sputtered a bit and rolled backwards onto the grass.
“Whoops,’’ he said. “Needs a little bit more.’’
He revved the engine and we went roaring up the ramp and onto the wooden slats of the trailer. David threw his weight onto the brake, and we came to a stop just before we would’ve crashed into the back of the pickup. He turned a few levers on the metal stick beside him and the car shuddered into silence, its iron body no longer shaking and alive.
I hopped down beside Sharon, where she stood waiting for us on the lawn, remarking on the spindly, elegant wheels.
“The Amish people redid the wheels for us in 2009 or 2010,’’ Sharon said. “Because my father passed in 2011, and it was before that.’’
She watched David strap the car back down onto its trailer with thick nylon webbing.
“My mother passed in 2010,’’ Sharon said. “My father was 15 months later. She was 93 and he was almost 94. They had been married 74 years.’’
David finished securing the car. As she started to walk back to the truck, Sharon turned around.
“We have a lot of fun with it,’’ she said. “People say, ‘You should restore it.’ But it wouldn’t look…’’ she trailed off.
“You wouldn’t see the age, you know?’’ she continued after a beat. “You wouldn’t see what it’s been through.’’
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