8/18/98.. Fuzzy Dice.

There's a cadre of antique car restorers in this town. Two of them tinker within a stone's throw of our house: Harvey and Hunton. Harvey does maintenance for the school district and drives a bus. Hunton is a shorthaul airline pilot. Off duty these guys are generally up to their elbows in old iron. They live across the road from each other, and you encounter them carrying parts back and forth, hands full of grease.

While his son was in highschool, Hunton took in the ruin of a ragtop 32 coupe, deconstructed it, and rebuilt it from the ground up, as part of the kid's education. This year, while he was grounded for a broken leg, he resurrected a vintage Volvo. His wife, Luanne, calls it "My Car," but is too afraid of scratching the paint to actually drive it.

If you keep your eyes peeled, you notice scads of old rods parked out back in Bowdoinham, or any small town. Hulks and born agains. Go to the sock hop at the Fat Boy Drive-in, and you could be in the 60s. Oop, there's James Dean. Fact is, we stopped making vehicles with character around 1970, and a generation of kids who grew up in a car culture still hunger for that visceral American Design. Still want that '56 Chevy.

Restoration is an artform, in the right hands, and one of our most democratic. Art museum directors may blather about Renaissance painters, while an American Design Renaissance is happening down in the alley. The antique vehicle auction at the Owls Head Transportation Museum raises big bucks every year. And reborn junkers are like lawn ornaments. Once you start to notice them, they're everywhere.

Ever since the demise of Hepzibah, our 1948 Dodge 3/4 ton, whom we abandoned on the sands of the Magdalen Islands for the want of a rear end, I've had a soft spot for vintage pickups. Somewhere between my ears. I slow down when I see one of those porthole cabs in the yard. The 64 Ford we drove from Quebec to St. John's Newfoundland, in second gear, was an exasperation, but M'dear, the 69 Dodge we escaped in from the far Noof, was the most reliable vehicle we ever owned. After I rebuilt everything twice. We put 300,000 miles on that slant six after I hung 6 new pistons, and it was only mechanic's malaise that led me to part with it. A decision I've regretted ever since.

Harvey and Hunton know this. They've recognized the mist in my eye as a kindred foolishness. Like the neck-craning of geezers when the young stuff struts by. Maybe it's about youth, but I prefer to think it's about esthetics. And utility, of course. It makes sense to have a pickup, if you're a country guy. Absolutely.

As a practicing contrarian, I've reveled in our relative immobility, however. Just an old Owl in the drive, and a bike in the shed. I'm so green you could plant me. I like the enforced localism. The mutual dependence of doing swaps for the inevitable trucking. Evolved a whole philosophy about low impact communitarianism. Bloody insufferable, and a nuisance to my friends.

That's when Harvey had Joe Moeller swing by in his latest restoration. A cherried out Chinese red 1966 Chevy 1/2 ton. You just shouldn't do that to a man of a certain age.

Joe worked construction all over the States before he came home to roost on the Fisher Road. After a bout with the big C, he retired to his garage, and put his heart into bringing old hulks back to life. He found this classy Chevy upcountry, wearing Arizona plates, and brought him home to gut. Took everything apart, wirebrushed what was sound, discarded the rest, and rebuilt him piece by piece. New springs, new brakes, new clutch, new glass, etc. Chrome valve covers, chrome breather, chrome wheels, new oak bed. The whole megillah. Had Roberts down the road do the hot paint, and white trim. Finished the job about a year ago, and halfheartedly tried to sell him through Uncle Henry's.

I'd seen this vision glinting at Joe's, but assumed it was part of the setting. He lives in a classic trailer with a big blue gazing ball, donkey cart and flamingos out front. Two white wagon wheels grace the end of his driveway. It wasn't until he put the baby out by the road with a FOR SALE sign on her last week, that I had an inkling. It wasn't until Harvey had Joe pulled into our dooryard, that I was smitten. We piled in the cab, and took him for a cruise.

You guessed. We are now the proud owners of a NEW 1966 pickup. Took my honey out for a spin last night. She snuggled up alongside me on the big bench seat, and giggled all the way to Topsham. Direct steering, and that old truck smell, takes you right back. It IS a chuckle. So much for the color green.

Now: naming is an important consideration, as with any new family member. We considered LEO or HYMAN, as logical nods to the source of capital, but feared that such a truck might prove difficult to live with. Figured the right handle would grab us. When I went to get plates, they handed me 5915 EB. Looks like he might be an Ebenezer. Just listen to his four barreled 283 purr.

And I have to decide on ornamental racks. Might as well go the whole distance. M'dear became the Flamingo Wagon in her later days. Now I'm thinking a couple of Blueticks in the back of EB, baying a coon on the rack. Or should it be a fox and chickens? Life is full of difficult decisions.

And what about fuzzy dice?