Ford Model AA Trucks

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  • The Tech Seminar That Wasn’t

    In the world of Model A Fords, the term tech seminar can mean anything from “serious mechanical instruction” to “a thin excuse for coffee and donuts with friends.” This particular Saturday, it leaned heavily toward the latter.

    Dad and I were down in South Orange County on what I called “The Great Dutch Oven Expedition.” We had convinced ourselves that somewhere between Laguna Niguel and Mission Viejo there was a used camping dutch oven waiting for us — one that didn’t cost more than a rebuilt carburetor. We had already scoured every thrift store, estate sale, and “Antiques and Stuff” shop we could find. Dad inspected each pot like it was a cylinder head, muttering things like, “You could make a fine cobbler in this one… if you don’t mind a little rust flavor.”

    That’s when my phone rang.

    “Hey Wade, we’re having a little tech seminar over at Richard’s place,” said a familiar voice from the Orange County Model A Club. “You and your dad ought to swing by.”

    Now, “tech seminar” sounded noble and educational — maybe something about carburetor tuning or spark advance. But experience told me that “tech seminar” often translated to “old friends swapping lies and eating pastries.” Which, truth be told, was just the kind of education Dad and I were looking for.

    When we arrived, the seminar was already in full swing — meaning half the donuts were gone and the coffee was cooling. Richard greeted us with a grin and a handshake that carried twenty years of Model A friendship. His garage was a museum of old Ford wisdom — grease-stained manuals, shelves of mysterious tools, and that faint smell of oil that should be bottled and sold as “Eau de Mechanic.”

    We sat around his patio table as the sun warmed the yard. The conversation drifted from “Why won’t my horn work?” to “Did you hear about the guy who used JB Weld on his radiator?” Technical topics lasted maybe thirty seconds each before detouring into fishing stories, road trip tales, and who had the best deal on tires at the last swap meet.

    Then Richard pulled out a book — a photo album, really — chronicling his trip around the country in his Model A Fordor. The man had actually driven it across the states, which put him in a rare class of adventurers somewhere between Marco Polo and the AAA roadside assistance guy.

    As I flipped through the pages, admiring the scenery, a familiar face stopped me cold. There was Mom — smiling beside Richard’s car, somewhere in the Montana, her hair windblown and her eyes bright. She’d passed away a couple years back, and seeing her there — in that book, frozen in time with a Model A in the background — hit me right in the carburetor.

    I smiled, blinked a few extra times for good measure, and kept turning the pages. That’s the thing about these old cars and clubs — they’re not just about grease fittings and valve clearances. They’re about people. The ones still turning wrenches, and the ones who left their fingerprints on the fenders long ago.

    By two o’clock, the seminar dissolved as naturally as it had formed. Hugs, handshakes, and promises to “see you at the next one” echoed across the driveway. Dad and I loaded up the truck — dutch oven-less but richer for the day.

    After dropping Dad off, I headed back up the 5 toward Santa Clarita. The sun was dipping low, and my mind wandered to Mom, Richard’s photos, and the upcoming San Fernando Valley Model A Club Swap Meet and Car Show.

    It struck me then that every swap meet, every coffee-fueled “tech seminar,” and every roadside repair was really just a way of keeping the people we love close — in stories, in laughter, and sometimes in the pages of an old photo book.

    I didn’t find a dutch oven that day. But I sure found something that filled me up.

  • The Tire Change That Time Forgot

    There are a few things in life that’ll test a man’s patience: waiting in line at the DMV, trying to reason with a teenager, and changing a tire on a 1930 Ford Model AA truck. I’ve done all three—and I’ll take the teenager any day.

    Now, for those unfamiliar with the mighty Model AA, let me set the stage. This isn’t your dainty little coupe or roadster, no sir. The AA is the brute of the Model A family. Twice the springs, twice the weight, and seemingly twice the stubbornness. The tire alone looks like it came off a Sherman tank, and the wheel is held on with enough bolts to build a small bridge.

    It all started, as these things usually do, with a flat. I was feeling rather proud of myself, cruising down the road at a blistering 35 miles per hour (downhill with a tailwind) when the truck began to wobble like a penguin on roller skates. I pulled over, and sure enough—one of the rear duals on the passenger side was flatter than my enthusiasm.

    Dad always said, “Son, changing a tire on an AA builds character.” I now realize that’s his polite way of saying, “You’re about to make some poor life choices.”

    First, I went to grab the jack. Now, this isn’t one of those sleek hydraulic ones you see at Pep Boys. This is the original, Ford-issue screw jack—a prehistoric piece of iron that looks like it was forged by Vikings. You don’t so much “lift” the truck with it as you negotiate.

    I positioned it under the axle and started cranking. The jack groaned. The truck groaned. I groaned. The only thing that didn’t groan was the rusted nut holding the wheel in place—it just laughed at me.

    After 20 minutes of creative language and some persuasion involving a three-foot cheater bar, the lug finally surrendered with a metallic PING! that nearly sent me sprawling into the ditch. That was progress, or at least it felt like it.

    The next challenge was getting the wheel off. See, in the 1930s, Ford engineers apparently decided the perfect fit between wheel and hub should be “microscopic.” After several rounds of tugging, rocking, and one brief prayer, I resorted to Dad’s favorite trick: the “precision hammer technique.” That’s where you hit it until it gives up.

    When the wheel finally came free, I caught it just before it could roll downhill and take out a mailbox. I felt victorious—momentarily. Because then came the real fun: mounting the spare.

    Now, my spare tire had been living under the truck since Eisenhower was in office. I dragged it out, dusted it off, and noticed it was about as round as a potato. But hey—it still held air, so that made it a winner in my book.

    Getting it onto the hub required a combination of brute force, questionable physics, and what I like to call the “AA Shuffle”—that delicate dance of grunting, balancing, and muttering under your breath until the holes line up.

    Finally, I tightened everything down, lowered the truck, and stood back to admire my handiwork. I was covered in grease, missing some skin on my knuckles, and smelled faintly of 90-year-old gear oil—but the truck was upright and rolling again.

    As I climbed back into the cab, Dad’s words echoed in my mind: “A man who can change a tire on an AA can handle just about anything life throws at him.”

    I thought about that as I drove home, proudly wobbling along. And wouldn’t you know it—half a mile later, I remembered the jack was still on the side of the road.

    That’s when I decided maybe character-building was overrated.

  • A Shade Tree Mechanic’s Thoughts on Model A Paint Colors

    When Henry Ford finally got over his “any color as long as it’s black” phase and introduced the Model A in late 1927, I imagine a collective sigh of relief swept through America. Here, at last, was a car that could be ordered in colors with names so fancy you’d think you were buying a necktie instead of a family automobile. Bonnie Gray, Andalusite Blue, Chicle Drab, Copra Drab—these sounded more like things you’d hear in a Paris boutique than in Uncle Lester’s barn where he stored his squirrel traps.

    Naturally, the first problem with paint colors is that nobody outside the Ford factory had the slightest idea what they really looked like. “Andalusite Blue” could be a dazzling ocean shade—or it could look exactly like the inside of a coal bucket. And when your neighbor proudly announced his new Fordor was finished in “Chicle Drab and Copra Drab,” the polite response was not, “What’s drab about it?” but rather a quiet nod followed by, “Yes, that is indeed a color.”

    Shade tree mechanics, of course, are not known for their color coordination. Most of us are satisfied when all four fenders are at least attached to the car at the same time, regardless of hue. Over the years I’ve seen more than one Model A that looked as if it had been assembled from the spare parts section of a carnival ride. I’ve even owned a few. “Patina” is the modern term. Back then, we called it “Couldn’t afford paint.”

    One of the great joys of the Model A hobby today is trying to argue with absolute certainty about what shade “Washington Blue” really was in 1930. My friends will bring out dusty paint chips, faded brochures, and highly suspect memories from their grandfathers who “swore up and down” the car was maroon. Meanwhile, I nod wisely while secretly thinking that my father’s old A was some shade of “Whatever the hardware store had on sale.”

    Truth be told, Ford’s paint choices were quite handsome when new. A freshly restored Model A with the correct scheme gleams with a kind of understated dignity. Still, the temptation for us backyard painters is always to improve on perfection. I once considered spraying my Model AA truck in “John Deere Green” on the theory that a truck should look like it belongs in a field. My wife, Stacie, advised against it, noting that while Henry Ford may have been many things, he was not in the tractor business.

    In the end, whether your Model A is done in Copra Drab, Bonnie Gray, Andalusite Blue—or three different shades of primer and a rattle-can touch-up—it still turns heads and sparks conversations. After all, the real color of a Model A is “Memory.”

  • The Rag Holder, the Hidden Passenger, and the Best Days of My Life

    Growing up, my dad was a one-man repair shop. Our driveway was less of a place to park cars and more like a battlefield where mechanical parts went to be fixed—or sometimes just to die a slow, oily death. Dad worked on everything: VW Bugs, VW buses, and our trusty Ford F-250.

    If a vehicle had wheels and the slightest chance of running, Dad believed it deserved to be saved. As a kid, I didn’t always share that belief. My dream world involved sprawling Lego cities on the cool carpet inside, where my cars never broke down, never leaked oil, and always ran perfectly. But no matter how far along I was in constructing my Lego empire, Dad’s voice would come thundering through the open window:

    “Wade! I need an extra set of hands out here!”

    And just like that, I was drafted into the garage army, usually wearing shorts and flip-flops—the worst possible uniform for the job.

    One of my earliest “responsibilities” was to hold a wet rag while Dad welded. He’d be outside the car, mask down, sending sparks flying, while I was inside, gripping that wet rag like my life depended on it.

    “If you see anything catch fire, put it out fast!” Dad would shout over the crackling of the welder.

    Nothing makes a kid appreciate air conditioning like sitting in a sweltering VW Bug in the middle of summer, praying the seat cushion doesn’t spontaneously combust. OSHA would have had a heart attack if they’d seen our setup, but to Dad, it was just another day in the shop.

    VW Bugs have engines that come out like stubborn teeth—they don’t want to leave. Dad was always pulling one out for a rebuild, and my role was part assistant, part pack mule, part comic relief.

    “Hand me the 13-millimeter socket with the extension,” he’d say.

    I’d hand him what I thought was the right tool.

    “No, not that one—the other one!”

    This exchange was repeated so often that I thought “the other one” was an official tool name.

    One of the most memorable “roadside adventures” came on a hot summer day when we were driving the VW Bug. Suddenly, the engine revved like a banshee, but we didn’t go anywhere. Dad muttered something under his breath, pulled over, and hopped out.

    “Throttle cable broke,” he said matter-of-factly, like it happened every Tuesday.

    Sure enough, the cable had snapped right at the carburetor. Dad popped open the engine lid, examined the break, and then gave me that look. The one that meant, “Hold this and don’t screw it up.”

    He rooted around in the glove box and under the seats, emerging with a piece of old wire and some electrical tape.

    “We’re gonna fix this, Wade. Pump the gas pedal real slow.”

    I dutifully climbed into the driver’s seat, pressing the pedal while Dad jury-rigged the cable back together. After a few tense minutes—and a lot of new vocabulary words from Dad—we were back on the road. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked, and to Dad, that was what mattered.

    Of course, not all our car adventures involved breakdowns. Some involved sneaking in.

    Whenever we went to the drive-in theater, the mission was always the same: save money by smuggling me in behind the backseat of Dad’s 1965 VW Bug. I’d curl up like a pretzel, trying not to sneeze while the ticket-taker shined a flashlight inside.

    Dad, cool as ever, would chat with the attendant like nothing was amiss. Once we passed through, he’d laugh and say,

    “Alright, kiddo, you can come up now.”

    I’d pop up grinning, feeling like a master criminal who’d just pulled off the heist of the century. Watching a movie was fun, but nothing beat the thrill of getting away with it.

    Then there was the whole process of putting the camper on the F-250. It required the entire family and a communication system that rivaled air-traffic control.

    Dad would be behind the truck, shouting directions. Mom was at the wheel, muttering under her breath. My job was to act as a human buffer zone, ready to dodge out of the way of both the truck and my parents’ growing frustration.

    Somehow, against all odds, we’d get the camper lined up and settled in. Dad would dust off his hands, step back like a victorious general, and declare, “Perfect. First try.”
    The rest of us just exchanged looks.

    Over time, I started to figure things out. I learned how to anticipate which tool Dad would need next, and I stopped confusing the half-inch socket with the 12-millimeter. I even started to feel a strange satisfaction when a stubborn bolt finally gave way or when a repair worked on the first try.

    Back then, I didn’t appreciate these moments. I thought they were just hot, sweaty, grease-stained interruptions to my Lego-building career.

    But looking back now, those were the best days.

    They were more than just repairs and roadside fixes. They were lessons in patience, problem-solving, and the fine art of making do with what you have.

    Even now, when I pick up a wrench, I can almost hear Dad’s voice saying, “Hand me the 13-millimeter.”
    And this time, without fail, I always grab the right one.

  • The Great Short Shaft Debacle

    By Wade Ratzlaff

    Some days start off with promise. The kind of day where you think, “I’ll just fix this one little thing on the truck, and then maybe we’ll go out for ice cream.” Other days, however, start off like that… and end with you lying in the driveway, covered in grease, PVC pipe in your hands, wondering if you’ve accidentally invented a new branch of plumbing science.

    This was definitely one of those days.

    It was July in Santa Clarita, the kind of heat where the sun feels like it’s personally trying to set you on fire. The thermometer wasn’t content with 100 degrees — it was well past that, heading toward “boil water instantly on contact” territory. Even the lizards were complaining. Naturally, this was the day my dad and I decided to pull the rear end out of my 1930 Ford Model AA truck to replace a U-joint.

    Now, the AA is a whole different beast than a regular Model A. It’s the heavy-duty version, designed to haul more weight than common sense would recommend. It also has a few extra parts that Model A folks don’t deal with — like the short shaft assembly.

    The short shaft is a clever little section that sits between the transmission and the rear driveshaft, letting you add an overdrive like the original Warford my dad and I bought years ago. That Warford still sits in the garage, quietly judging us for never installing it.

    The job sounded simple:

    1. Pull the rear end.
    2. Replace the U-joint at the short shaft.
    3. Put it all back together before we turned into human jerky in the sun.

    By mid-morning, “simple” had packed its bags and left town. The truck was in a thousand pieces scattered across the driveway like a mechanical crime scene. Dad and I were crawling under the frame, hunting for bolts that rolled into places known only to spiders and dark magic. Finally, after much sweating, grunting, and at least three busted knuckles, we got the rear end out and were ready to start reassembly.

    That’s when we discovered a horrifying truth:
    We couldn’t find the short torque tube — the very piece that connected the short shaft assembly.

    We searched everywhere. Under the truck. Behind the workbench. Inside every coffee can full of miscellaneous parts we’d been “meaning to sort” since 1992. At one point, I even checked the freezer, just in case someone had mistaken it for a popsicle.

    Nothing. Gone. Completely vanished, like socks in a dryer.

    After an hour of roasting in the sun and arguing about whether we’d ever actually owned one in the first place, I had a flash of inspiration — or maybe it was just heatstroke. Either way, I told Dad, “I’ll be back,” and drove to the local hardware store.

    There, in the blessedly air-conditioned aisles of plumbing supplies, I spotted salvation: black PVC pipe and fittings. It was cheap, it was round, and I figured, “Well, it’s not like it can get more broken.”

    I bought a length of pipe, some fittings, and headed home with my highly questionable solution.

    To my surprise, when I slid the PVC pieces together, they fit perfectly. Not “close enough to make do,” but snug and solid, like they were meant for this truck all along. Dad looked skeptical, but I just grinned and said, “Trust me. It’ll work.”

    We built a temporary torque tube out of the PVC and started reassembling everything. For a while, it went better than expected — until we tried to get the splines to fully engage.

    No matter what we did, the splines just wouldn’t slide together that last stubborn inch. We pushed, we pulled, we cursed, we prayed. At one point, I suggested dynamite, but Dad vetoed it on the grounds that we still wanted to own a truck when this was over.

    Then, like a heavenly breeze cutting through the sweltering air, my wife Stacie came outside. She took one look at the situation and said calmly, “Why don’t you just crank the engine and let the wheels drive the shaft in?”

    Dad and I froze. It was such a simple, obvious idea that it physically hurt to realize we hadn’t thought of it ourselves.

    We hooked everything up, turned the key, and gave the engine a bump. With a satisfying clunk, the splines slid perfectly into place. Victory!

    The truck was back together, the U-joint was fixed, and the PVC torque tube had proven itself as an unlikely hero. Dad nodded slowly, perhaps reconsidering his lifelong skepticism of hardware store improvisations. Stacie just shook her head like she’d known the answer the whole time.

    As the sun set, casting long shadows over our scattered tools, I leaned back and admired the truck. Sure, the Warford overdrive was still sitting in the garage waiting for “someday,” and sure, my “torque tube” technically came from the plumbing aisle, but the old AA was back on the road.

    And on that sweltering, grease-stained day, that was good enough.

  • A Shade Tree Mechanic’s Thoughts on Life and Cars

    Wrenching with Dad

    Some kids spent their childhood Saturdays at the movies or the mall. I spent mine under the hood, or more accurately, standing next to my dad while he did the real work and I tried not to lose the 9/16″ wrench he just handed me.

    Dad’s garage wasn’t just a garage—it was his kingdom. Every tool you could ever imagine lived in there, piled on benches, hanging from hooks, tucked into drawers. And somehow, Dad knew where everything was. If he needed a left-handed metric crescent wrench, he’d dig into the chaos and produce one like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

    The worst crime I ever committed as a kid wasn’t breaking a window or denting the car—it was the day I “helped” by cleaning and organizing his rolling tool chest. Every socket lined up by size, every screwdriver standing at attention. Beautiful, I thought. Dad came home, opened the drawer, and looked at me like I had just betrayed the family. “Now I’ll never find anything!” he grumbled. Lesson learned: don’t mess with a man’s tools.

    One of my earliest jobs was standing guard with a wet rag while Dad welded on our ’65 VW Bug. Sparks flew, little fires popped up, and there I was, patting them out like a pint-sized firefighter. I felt important—saving the car one glowing ember at a time. Dad never worried; he trusted me. Or maybe he was just too focused on laying down a good bead.

    Working with Dad wasn’t just about grease and busted knuckles. On hot summer days, after sweating over the old Ford truck, we’d crack open a glass bottle of Squirt. He’d split it with me, half for him, half for me. Sitting there, hands still dirty, sweat on our brows, it was the best drink I ever had. Sweet, cold, fizzy—tasted like victory.

    Not all repairs happened at home. One time, on a dusty dirt road south of Dillon, Montana, the car decided it had had enough. There we were, tools spread on the gravel, Dad under the car, me handing him wrenches while the wind carried dust into our faces. It wasn’t fun at the time, but we got it running, and that road, that fix, still sticks with me.

    And then there were the ice fishing trips up by Havre. The car—a California transplant—wasn’t exactly bred for Montana winters. Every time we headed out onto that frozen prairie, I wondered if the old thing would even start afterward. More than once, I pictured us stuck out there, future frozen exhibits alongside the walleye. But somehow, Dad always coaxed it to life, the engine groaning back into service.

    At the time, holding rags, handing wrenches, and standing around in a cold garage didn’t feel like fun. I probably wished I was anywhere else. But looking back now, those were the best days. They weren’t just about fixing cars—they were about time spent with Dad. About learning patience, problem-solving, and the value of doing a job right. About watching a man who could make order out of chaos, except when his kid reorganized the tool chest.

    Life goes by quick. Cars break down, engines wear out, garages fill up. But those memories of working side by side with Dad—they don’t rust. They just get shinier the older you get.

  • Houdaille Shocks 101: Are They Doing Anything?

    Original lever shocks either work like a gentleman or like a doorstop. The bounce test is free: push down a fender—if it oscillates like a diving board, your shocks are moonlighting. Unhook a link and swing the arm: you want smooth, consistent resistance both ways. Top them with proper shock oil (not gear glue), bleed per instructions, and set link lengths so the arms ride mid‑stroke at curb weight. One seized corner makes the whole car crabby. Touring? A click firmer keeps luggage and passengers from pogo‑dancing. Rebuilt units transform the car more than fancy tires ever will. Shocks don’t make it harsh; they erase the aftershocks.

    Quarter‑Turn Wisdom: Tighten those shock arm pinch bolts like you care. They love to loosen when you brag about how well the car now rides.

  • Steering Box Zen: Taking the Slop Out Without Hurting the Worm

    If your A wanders like a shopping cart with a favorite aisle, the cure is not to crank the adjuster until the wheel squeaks. The steering box is a stack of little truths: tire pressure, toe‑in, tie‑rod ends, kingpins, column bushings, and only then sector lash. Start with the easy wins—32 PSI in the fronts (or whatever your tire likes), wheels that are actually round, front end snugged up, and toe‑in 1/16–1/8″. Now center the box: wheels straight, pitman arm pointing to Kansas, not Nebraska. Nudge the adjuster at center only. You want just enough resistance that the wheel finds home after a turn without you parenting it. Over‑tighten and you’ve built a friction heater that eats worms for lunch. Fill the box with 600W or a modern equivalent that won’t run for the door. If the column has vertical play, shim the upper bearing; if the sector wobbles in its bore, re‑bush and ream to fit. Goal: predictable, friendly steering you can hold with two fingers and a smile, not zero play and a new vocabulary word.

    Shade Tree Tip: If the horn starts honking in corners, the steering isn’t haunted—the light rod is grounding. Fix the bushing before it embarrasses you at the drive‑thru.

  • The Ford Model AA: A Workhorse of the Early 20th Century

    When you think of the roaring 1920s and early 1930s, images of shiny Model A Fords cruising down dirt roads or parked on bustling main streets often come to mind. While the Model A passenger car was a symbol of affordable transportation for the everyday family, its big brother, the Ford Model AA truck, was the unsung hero quietly building America. From farms and factories to delivery companies and municipalities, the Model AA was a cornerstone of industry during a pivotal time in U.S. history.

    The Birth of the Model AA

    Introduced in 1927 alongside the Model A car, the Model AA was Ford’s answer to a growing demand for heavier-duty vehicles. Henry Ford understood that while families wanted an affordable, reliable car, businesses needed a sturdy, dependable truck to haul goods, tools, and supplies.

    The AA shared much of its DNA with the Model A car, including the legendary 201-cubic-inch four-cylinder engine that produced 40 horsepower. But that’s where the similarities largely ended. The AA’s frame, suspension, and rear axle were all significantly beefed up to handle the rigors of commercial use. The truck was designed to carry loads of up to 1.5 tons, making it a true workhorse for its era.

    Configurations and Uses

    The Model AA was highly versatile and could be customized for nearly any task. Ford offered the chassis alone, allowing third-party companies to add specialized bodies. Common configurations included:

    • Stake-bed trucks for hauling produce, lumber, or general freight.
    • Panel trucks for delivery services like milk or bakery goods.
    • Dump trucks for construction and municipal work.
    • Fire trucks, ambulances, and school buses, often built by companies like Gar Wood or Martin-Parry using Ford’s chassis.

    This adaptability made the Model AA incredibly popular with small businesses and government agencies alike.

    Design and Mechanical Features

    The AA’s chassis came in two wheelbase lengths, 131.5 inches and 157 inches, to accommodate different body styles and cargo requirements. It featured a four-speed transmission (with a super-low first gear for heavy loads) and a worm-gear rear axle, which provided extra strength and durability.

    Early versions from 1928 closely resembled the Model A car, right down to the radiator shell and cab design. As production continued into the 1930s, Ford introduced improvements such as:

    • Heavier duty wheels and tires.
    • Stronger braking systems.
    • A more modern look, especially by 1931, when the styling became squarer and more utilitarian.

    The Model AA in American Life

    The late 1920s and early 1930s were a turbulent time. The country went from the optimism of the post-war boom to the depths of the Great Depression. Through it all, the Model AA remained a reliable partner for farmers, delivery drivers, and tradesmen.

    In rural America, these trucks carried crops to market and hauled feed, tools, and even livestock. In cities, they were the backbone of delivery fleets, transporting everything from ice to beer. For many businesses, a Model AA wasn’t just a vehicle — it was their livelihood.

    Legacy and Collectibility

    Today, surviving Model AA trucks are cherished by collectors and enthusiasts. While they were once considered just “old farm trucks” and left to rust in barns and fields, interest has grown as people appreciate their role in history.

    Restoring a Model AA is no small task. Their heavier components and often-custom bodies make finding parts a challenge, but dedicated clubs and reproduction part suppliers keep the tradition alive. Many enthusiasts proudly drive their restored AAs in parades, club events, and even on the open road — though at a top speed of around 35 mph, you won’t be breaking any land speed records.

    Conclusion

    The Ford Model AA may not have the same glamour as its passenger car sibling, but it played a vital role in shaping the modern world. Built tough, versatile, and dependable, it represents an era when America was building, hauling, and forging ahead — one truckload at a time.

    For those lucky enough to own one today, a Model AA is more than just a vintage vehicle. It’s a rolling reminder of hard work, resilience, and the enduring spirit of innovation that helped carry a nation through some of its most challenging years.