1932 Ford, Windsor, 1943
Alex Horen’s 1921 Gray-Dort Touring, circa 1958
Hauling Coal in a Rumble Seat, 1945
Blonde Pushes Truck Uphill, 1945
Free Parking at King and Parliament, 1946
Tractor Out to Pasture, 1946
Trunk or Rumble Seat? 1946
Danforth Used Car Alley, Toronto, 1946
Spinning its Tires on Avenue Road Hill, 1947
“We’ve Been Everywhere!”
Wash This Car!
Sitting on a 1947 or ’48 Buick
New 1949 Monarch, Leamington
“Step-down” Hudson, Novar, 1949
Saskatchewan Youth Buys First Car
1949 Triumph 2000 Roadster, Toronto, 1956
Jim Featherstone’s 1941 Plymouth
Janet Reder on 1941 Dodge
Not the Better Way, 1952
Manitoba Adventures with a 1938 Plymouth, 1952
1928 Chevrolet Roadster, Carlisle, 1953
1953 Chevrolet Convertible, Kingsville, 1954
Thorncrest Ford-Monarch Dealership, Toronto, 1953
Bob Downey’s 1956 Meteor Convertible
Ontario Automobile Dealership, Toronto, 1953
1947 Ford Sportsman, Quebec, 1954
1954 Meteor “Niagara” Convertible
Canada’s Answer to James Dean, circa 1954
Norm Lightfoot and Friends
Three Fellows in a Nash Metropolitan
1952 Pontiac Hardtop, 1955
1949 Pontiac in 1956
1949 DeSoto from Alberta
1957 DeSoto Convertible, 1958
White Rose Gas Station, Blytheswood
B-A Service Station, Toronto Area, late 1950s
Bringing Home the Groceries, 1958
Hungry for Horsepower, 1959
New Brunswick Memories
Ten-year Drop in Price to 1960
1931 Chrysler for $30
Ron Fawcett with Two Model T Fords
Customized 1960 Meteor Convertible at Autorama, Toronto, 1960
Mike McGill and the Etobi-Cams
Unusual Engine Swap
Rust in Peace …
Photo from Bob Kirk’s Family Album
Calling all Cars
Special Thanks
Notes
by Mike Filey
WHEN I WAS JUST A young teenager attending North Toronto Collegiate Institute (the finest high school in North America and coincidentally the school at which the author of this book taught, long after I was there), I was never tempted by such mundane propositions as beer, cigarettes, or skipping class. Not me. However, I was often tempted by another, the desire to own a car. In fact, my friend John Ross, who was employed in the family contracting business and really didn’t need an education to make his way through life, would just happen to drive by in his new red 1958 Pontiac convertible as I made my way to school along Broadway Avenue. This guy would drive me crazy. He had a nice car, I wanted a nice car. Several times I came close to giving it all up. I’d simply quit school, go out and buy myself something new and flashy, and worry about paying for “my” car in the next life.
Well, that just wasn’t to be. First off, I didn’t even have my driver’s licence. In fact, my parents were adamant that my schooling would come first and if I stuck with it, my dad would teach me to drive and let me use his new, but rather commonplace, 1959 Ford two-door sedan when it came time to take the test. The big day came and I passed. Now it was my turn to get a car. Actually it was a stretch to call what I was able to afford a car at all. It was a 1949 Morris Minor with one option, a heater, the fan of which was under the passenger’s seat. Turn the device on and the person sitting beside me would rise two or three inches. The car also had mechanical brakes, a set of flipper directional signals, and was constantly infused with a not totally objectionable (at least not to me) aroma of burning oil. Well, I couldn’t do anything about the heater, the brakes, the signals, or that smell, but I could certainly make the vehicle look flashier. I’d give it a do-it-yourself paint job. (Actually, I’d have to do it myself, the fifty bucks I paid for this thing left me flat broke.) So off to the Yonge and Church streets Canadian Tire store I went and bought several tins of paint that when mixed together would give me that turquoise colour I wanted. At least I was pretty sure they would.
As it happened the colour turned out okay, but the amount I had to work with wasn’t quite enough. When I reached the trunk area I realized I could never reproduce the colour I had created. What to do? Simple. I went back to the front of the car and pushed the paint towards the back of the car, hoping to move enough along to cover what was left of the original maroon colour.
The old Morris may have been my first car, but it certainly wasn’t my last. Far from it. I went through cars like some of my friends went through packs of cigarettes. After the Morris came a 1954 Nash Metropolitan that really wasn’t mine. It belonged to Joan Lewis, the wife of druggist Phil Lewis, and as a kind of perk for working in his store at Eglinton and Redpath for an outrageously high number of hours, at an outrageously low hourly rate, I was allowed to use this tiny “babe magnet” on weekends. Next came a 1958 Hillman (never started when it looked like rain) Minx. On this one I spray-painted the hubcaps gold. One day while driving down a country road north of the city one of the caps shot off the car into a farm field. I could only imagine someone finding it years later and believing they had come across remnants of one of those abandoned gold mines out near Markham.
Finally, I graduated (Ryerson, Chemistry, class of 1965 … actually I took that subject
