Last week after payday I finally was able to make the three hour drive down to the distant self-service junkyard where not one, but 2 B210s have found their final parking spot over the last month. I spent all day there and got a whole wagon load of parts, including some real treasures. Still, it was a melancholy sight:
This white--formerly brown--76 two-door sedan had been on sight only about a week, and thus donated the lion's share of the parts I got. It had been somewhat better cared for than the other one during its long life, however, just before packing up to leave for the day I scoured the floor for any overlooked treasures. There was more than one floor mat in front of the driver's area, so I checked to see if either was original. When I pulled the mats up, I saw there was a third mat, then a fourth, then a fifth...and then the bare floor, rusted away into Flintstones territory. The Pile of mats had been the only thing keeping the last driver's feet from scraping down the road.
The blue hatchback was a 74 model built in late 73--an early one. It had obviously led an interesting life. the sides sported the ghosts of a sign for some sort of charity youth organization the car had once belonged to, and whoever drove it in its final days was in the habit of scribbling addresses, phone numbers, and repair information on the dash with magic marker. Someone had repaired the glovebox door, whose plastic hinge had broken long ago, with a length of piano hinge, long enough ago for it to become rusty. Under the hood was a Clinton-Gore sticker and a tangle of rusty coat-hanger wire. The back (once some kind passers-by were nice enough to help me wrestle it open) contained almost the entire original tire kit along with a folder of a decade's worth of repair records paper-machied together and harboring a family of silverfish.