Age 16. Dying for a car. It was 1971. My old 5th grade teacher knew how much I was working for car money, and offered me her 1953 3 on the tree. Dont even remember its color because I immediately brush (yes, brush) painted it shiny black with white racing stripes. Named her Dorothy after my teacher. Learned a lot from my first love. She had an oil bath air filter. I lived in a little mountain town and Dorothy and I explored hundreds of miles of logging roads and thousands of highway miles without a single breakdown. That little overhead six had 9 lives. Dorothy was a tank and took a terrible beating. Never even replaced a shock! As a bonus her trunk was big enough to smuggle 3 people into the drive-in without paying. At 18 I needed a truck. I looked Dorothey in the lenses and said “Its not you, girl—its me” I sold her to another guy who promised to protect her. To my horror he entered her into the towns destruction derby. As a testiment to Ford Tough, she did very well! Last time I saw her, she was chained to telephone pole with the word BEAST painted on her side. I left town and never looked back. I think about her while driving her great grandson. My F-350 Superduty.