Ford Model AA Trucks

I have sat at the keyboard multiple times and have found it difficult to start. Here is the latest.

I don’t hoard.
I curate.

Every bolt, every washer, every slightly bent cotter pin in my shop is there for a reason. That reason may not be clear today, or even this decade, but the Model A has a long memory—and it will come back asking for that exact part you threw away in 1987.

You see, a Model A doesn’t break politely. It doesn’t fail in a way that lets you stroll into the parts store and say, “Yeah, I need one of those.” No sir. It waits until Sunday afternoon, five minutes before you’re supposed to leave for a tour, then snaps a fastener Henry Ford personally specified in 1929 and never again.

That’s when the coffee can of bolts earns its keep.

I’ve got cans labeled “maybe important,” “probably Model A,” and “definitely Model A but I forgot where it goes.” Inside are bolts that don’t match anything modern, threads that laugh at metric, and washers with just the right amount of wear to fit something that’s been wallowed out since the Hoover administration.

And tools? Oh, don’t get me started.

Yes, I have three ½-inch wrenches.
No, they are not the same.

One is thin enough to fit where Ford clearly hated mechanics. One is bent “just a little” from that one time I needed leverage and poor judgment won. The third? That one’s for loaning out—because you never loan the good wrench.

The same logic applies to screwdrivers, pliers, hammers, and that one tool nobody remembers buying but everyone uses. If you only own one, the Model A will demand it be missing.

Now… enter my better half.

She looks at the garage and sees clutter.
I look at it and see future solutions.

She asks, “Why do you need four generators?”
I explain that one is good, one is rebuildable, one is for parts, and one might be good if the moon is right and Mercury isn’t in retrograde.

She asks, “Why is there a box labeled ‘rear axle stuff’?”
I answer, “Because someday I’ll need exactly one thing from that box, and if I throw it away, I will immediately need it.”

She asks, “Why can’t you clean this up?”
I say, “Because the moment I organize it, nothing will ever work again.”

The truth is, the garage isn’t messy—it’s a mechanical memory bank. Every part has a story. That bent bolt? Tour breakdown. That cracked headlamp rim? Learned the hard way. That extra carburetor? Hope. Pure hope.

And deep down, she knows it too. Because when something rattles, leaks, or refuses to cooperate, guess where the answer usually comes from?

That pile she wants gone.

So yes, I promise I’ll clean up.
I’ll sort things.
I’ll label boxes.

But I will never throw away a perfectly good bolt.

Because somewhere out there, a Model A is already planning to need it.

And when that day comes, I’ll smile, reach into a dusty coffee can, and say the sweetest words a Shade Tree Mechanic knows:

“Ah… there you are.”