They are to transportation as the Colt 1911 is to weaponry, and they never fail to trigger my acquisitive mania.
There were 13 of them, including the lust object called Scrambler. Of which, below, the interior of the blue one at far right. Just too tired.
Or how about a nice flat fender Willys from the 40s or early 50s?
Like the Scrambler, just too tired. The engine was missing and the transmission stored on the floorboards.
No one was around the place, else I'd have undoubtedly asked prices, then mentally added restoration costs of $goodgawdafriday before deciding there are other toys which would give me more pleasure per buck invested.
I am writing trivia yesterday and today, little more than pretty pictures captioned. The banality must suffice until I work my way into something more about a trip with a purpose; tracking my kin and my larger people, the Scots Irish, the redneck hillbillies of whom I am a recent incarnation.
I'll probably get round to saying something prosy about it. For now leave it this way: Anyone who walked the Wilderness Road from the foothills just above Tidewater Country, stumbled on and through the Cumberland Gap, and followed Boone's Trace up to his first fort was one tough son of a bitch. Or daughter. From seven generations forward, here's to you Grandpa John and Grandma Christina.