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  • The Great Model A Migration

    By Wade Ratzlaff

    There are times in every man’s life when he looks at everything he owns, piles it all up, and thinks, “This should probably go in the back of a 1930 Model AA truck and be driven up the coast at a stately 35 miles an hour.”

    Most men, of course, never follow through on that thought.
    I am not most men.

    The move from Fullerton to Santa Barbara seemed simple enough. After all, it’s only a couple of counties away. But when you decide to do it in a truck that was built back when Calvin Coolidge was in office, things get… complicated.

    My 1930 AA stake bed truck has a certain personality. It rattles like a coffee can full of marbles, smells faintly of motor oil and history, and has the aerodynamic grace of a brick with wheels. It’s the sort of vehicle that doesn’t just drive down the road—it announces itself like a freight train pulling into a small town.

    I loaded everything I owned into the back: furniture, boxes, tools, and at least three random items I couldn’t identify but was pretty sure I’d need someday. By the time I was finished, the truck was groaning like an old mule and sitting a good four inches lower in the back.

    I stood there for a moment, admiring my work. It looked like a scene out of The Grapes of Wrath if Steinbeck had included a chapter on busted knuckles and vintage Ford suspension.

    “Good enough,” I muttered. “If it stays in until Santa Barbara, I’ll consider it a win.”

    Most people would use maps, GPS, or at least glance at a road sign before undertaking a long-distance move. I figured, “Why complicate things?”

    My navigation strategy was simple: take surface streets until I hit the 101 freeway in Ventura, then turn north and hope for the best. After all, you can’t get lost if you never really know where you’re going in the first place.

    I decided to leave at 4 a.m., partly to avoid traffic and partly because the fewer witnesses to this ridiculous endeavor, the better. The neighbors already had their suspicions about me, and I didn’t want to confirm anything.

    The first leg of the journey was almost peaceful. The old truck rattled along through the dark, the stake bed creaking under the weight of my worldly possessions. The streetlights flickered by, and I imagined myself as a 1930s trucker on some long-forgotten delivery route, back when five gallons to the mile was considered efficient.

    At five miles per gallon, I quickly became acquainted with nearly every gas station between Fullerton and Ventura. Each stop involved filling both the gas tank and the radiator, a ritual that attracted curious stares from onlookers.

    “Is that thing… safe?” one guy asked, eyeing the truck warily.

    “Define ‘safe,’” I replied, handing over another twenty-dollar bill.

    By the time I finally reached Ventura, the sun had risen, the morning rush had begun, and my confidence had evaporated. Still, there was no turning back now.

    I turned onto the 101 freeway, merged into traffic, and immediately realized this was a horrible mistake.

    You haven’t truly lived until you’ve piloted a fully loaded 1930 stake bed truck at 35 miles an hour on a modern freeway while everyone else flies past you doing 75. The truck rattled so violently I began to suspect some of my internal organs were loosening.

    The steering wheel vibrated in my hands like a live wire, and every passing semi created a wind vortex that shoved me halfway into the next lane. Meanwhile, modern drivers zipped past with expressions that ranged from mild curiosity to outright terror.

    I kept my white-knuckled grip on the wheel and repeated a calming mantra:
    “Stay alive. Stay upright. Don’t let the mattress fly out.”

    At 35 miles an hour and five miles per gallon, progress was… leisurely. My route became a series of evenly spaced gas stations, each one like an oasis in the desert. I’d pull in, climb out with stiff legs, fill the tank, top off the radiator, and check the load in the back to make sure my dresser hadn’t escaped somewhere around Oxnard.

    By mid-morning, I was on a first-name basis with several gas station attendants. One guy even asked, “You moving cross-country or just across the county?”

    “Just up to Santa Barbara,” I said.

    He whistled. “You’re either a genius or completely nuts.”

    “Why not both?” I grinned, then paid for another round of gas.

    Just when I started thinking I might actually pull this off without a hitch, the universe decided to remind me who was really in charge.

    South of Carpinteria, there was a loud BANG followed by a rhythmic flop-flop-flop sound. The truck swerved slightly, and I knew immediately: flat tire.

    I pulled onto the shoulder, which was about six inches wider than the truck itself, and climbed out to assess the damage. Sure enough, the rear tire looked like a sad pancake.

    Changing a tire on a 1930 AA stake bed truck on the side of a freeway is a character-building exercise. It involves equal parts brute strength, creative cursing, and sheer blind faith.

    As cars screamed past at warp speed, I wrestled with the jack, the lug nuts, and my own will to live. Forty sweaty minutes later, I had the spare mounted and my pride only slightly dented.

    The last leg into Santa Barbara felt like the home stretch of an epic quest. The truck rattled, my ears rang, and the smell of hot engine coolant filled the cab, but nothing could dampen my spirits.

    As I rolled into town, I felt a surge of victory. I had made it—no maps, no breakdowns (well, except for the flat tire), and no lost cargo.

    I parked the truck, climbed down on shaky legs, and looked at my faithful old AA.

    “We did it, old friend,” I said, patting the fender. “Against all odds, we did it.”

    Looking back, the move wasn’t just about hauling my belongings from one city to another. It was about the experience—the dawn departure, the endless pit stops, the rattling ride on the freeway, and the small victories along the way.

    Sure, there were moments of terror, exhaustion, and the occasional mechanical mishap. But there was also a strange, wonderful sense of adventure.

    After all, anyone can rent a moving truck and get the job done in a few hours.
    But it takes a certain kind of lunatic to trust a 1930 stake bed truck, a full load of possessions, and sheer stubbornness to get the job done.

    And when I fire up the old AA today, I swear I can still hear the faint rattle of the freeway and smell the ghost of radiator steam mixed with triumph.

  • Manifold Mayhem and the Legend of the Carne Asada Engine

    Some people think the Model A hobby is all about restoring cars, polishing chrome, and debating whether the correct paint color is Ford Maroon #23 or Ford Maroon #24. Those people have clearly never been on a manifold cooking tour, because if they had, they’d know the real joy of owning these cars comes when you combine two great American pastimes: driving and eating—preferably at the same time.

    The Orange County Model A Club had decided to host a special tour devoted entirely to the fine art of cooking on an engine. While most car clubs would settle for a potluck, we figured why bother with tables and chairs when you’ve got perfectly good, piping-hot manifolds under our hoods? Back in the day, Model A drivers routinely wrapped up their lunches in foil and set them on the manifold for a hot meal at the end of the trip. Naturally, we thought, “Why stop at lunch? Let’s do appetizers, entrées, desserts, the whole menu!”

    My dad, Donald, was especially excited. He and my mom, Carolyn, would be driving his pride and joy—a beautifully restored 1929 Ford Tudor sedan. Mom doesn’t usually volunteer for long rides in the Tudor because, as she puts it, “It’s like sitting in a rolling sewing machine with no air conditioning.” But she came along this time, partly because she enjoys seeing the friends in the club and partly because she couldn’t bear the thought of Dad running loose with a portable oven and no supervision.

    I, on the other hand, was driving my 1930 AA stake bed truck, a lumbering beast of a vehicle that sounds like a rolling factory once it gets above 30 miles per hour. Dad likes his drives calm and dignified. My truck likes to rattle your teeth loose and scare nearby livestock. It balances out nicely.

    We started off early that morning, Dad and Mom leading the way in the Tudor, me rumbling along behind in the AA. The sun was low, the sky was clear, and a fine mist hung in the cool air. My stomach growled—not out of hunger, but because I could already smell food cooking as some members had started their manifold meals right from the start.

    When we arrived at the meeting spot, I realized this wasn’t going to be a casual gathering. These folks came prepared. There were foil packets of vegetables, aluminum trays of lasagna, and even a couple of brave souls attempting pies. It was less like a car club and more like a mobile Iron Chef competition.

    Dad, of course, had taken things to the next level. Not content to merely wrap food in foil, he had built a full-blown oven that bolted directly to his heater manifold. While the rest of us were trying to keep hot dogs from falling into the fan belt, Dad was casually baking fresh bread as he drove. The smell was heavenly. At one point, a couple of cyclists passed us on the road, then stopped, sniffed the air like cartoon characters, and actually followed Dad’s Tudor for half a mile just to find out what smelled so good.

    Mom rode shotgun, making sure Dad didn’t get too distracted by his culinary masterpiece. Every so often, I’d see her lean over, point, and clearly say something like, “Donald, keep your eyes on the road, not the bread!”

    I, being somewhat less mechanically sophisticated, had gone with a simpler setup: a custom pan bolted directly to the AA’s heating manifold. Into this pan, I loaded a glorious batch of carne asada, marinated to perfection and ready to sizzle into history. My vision was clear—perfectly cooked steak strips, seasoned just right, to share proudly with everyone at the event.

    What I failed to account for was the physics of braking.

    Now, carne asada is a juicy food, which is great for flavor but less great when you’re bouncing along in a 95-year-old truck. My pan didn’t have a locking lid. I figured friction would keep everything in place. I figured wrong.

    We were cruising through a scenic stretch of road when a stop sign appeared like an ambush. I hit the brakes hard. The AA lurched forward with all the grace of a startled hippo. My beautiful carne asada sloshed forward, hit the edge of the pan, and—glorp!—half of it spilled out directly onto the engine.

    The smell was immediate and spectacular. Imagine the world’s best taco stand colliding with a mechanic’s shop at 40 miles per hour, and you’ll have some idea of the aroma. Sizzling beef, cilantro, and lime juice mixed with warm engine grease. It was mouthwatering and nauseating at the same time.

    By the time we arrived at the gathering, I had a convoy of stray dogs trailing my truck like it was the Pied Piper of tacos. Dad and Mom were already parked, the irresistible scent of his freshly baked bread drifting through the air. Mom stepped out, took one whiff of my truck, and wrinkled her nose.

    “Donald,” she said flatly, “Wade’s truck smells… delicious.”

    Dad peered under my hood and grinned. “Son, you’ve invented a whole new category of barbecue.”

    “Yeah,” I muttered, trying to scrape charred steak bits off the manifold with a screwdriver. “Engine-grilled carne asada.”

    Despite my personal catastrophe, the event itself was a huge success. The club gathered around, unloading their dishes from under their hoods. There were roasted vegetables, foil-wrapped hot dogs, baked potatoes, lasagna, and, of course, Dad’s perfectly baked bread, which disappeared in seconds.

    Even my carne asada—what little of it survived its journey on the engine—was salvaged, though someone claimed they detected a faint undertone of motor oil.

    Mom, ever the voice of reason, oversaw the feast like a referee at a particularly chaotic game. She made sure everyone got a fair share and that no one mistook gasket grease for gravy.

    We all laughed, swapped recipes, and vowed to try even more ambitious dishes next time. It wasn’t just about the food or even the cars—it was about the shared experience of doing something silly and memorable together.

    As the sun started to set, Dad, Mom, and I stood beside our cars, watching the group pack up. Dad was still basking in the glory of being crowned the club’s Manifold Baking Champion, while I was resigned to my new role as the guy whose engine smells like tacos.

    “You know,” Dad said, “we need to do tours like this more often.”

    “Absolutely,” I agreed, glancing at my truck. “Next time, though, I’m bringing twice as much foil.”

    Mom laughed and shook her head. “And maybe some wet wipes.”

    We all laughed, already planning our next adventure. Because that’s the magic of these tours: even when things go wrong—especially when things go wrong—you end up with a story you’ll tell for years.

    To this day, every time I fire up the AA, there’s still a faint aroma of grilled beef wafting out of the vents. It’s a lasting reminder of a day filled with laughter, family, friends, and food.

    And every single time, without fail, I get a sudden craving for tacos.

  • Shade Tree Mechanic: The Great Carburetor Rebuild

    By Wade Ratzlaff

    There are few things in life more satisfying than getting your Model A Ford running perfectly. There are also few things more humbling than trying to get it to run perfectly.

    Take, for instance, the carburetor. That little contraption sits proudly on the side of the engine, quietly deciding whether your car will purr like a contented cat or cough, sputter, and wheeze like a man trying to run a marathon after a large chili dinner.

    I learned this lesson the hard way when I decided to rebuild the carburetor on my 1930 Ford.

    The trouble started one Saturday morning when I noticed my beloved Model A was running about as smoothly as a washing machine filled with bricks. The idle was rough, the acceleration lagged, and there was a distinct odor of unburned fuel strong enough to make the neighbor’s dog sneeze three houses away.

    Naturally, I did what every self-respecting shade tree mechanic does: I blamed the carburetor.

    My dad used to say, “Nine out of ten problems on a Model A are caused by the carburetor. The tenth is caused by you trying to fix the carburetor.”

    But I was undeterred.

    Armed with a carburetor rebuild kit, a handful of tools, and a level of confidence wholly unsupported by experience, I announced to my family, “I’m rebuilding the carb today!”

    They immediately cleared the area as though I’d declared I was about to launch fireworks indoors.

    I began by carefully removing the carburetor from the engine. At least, that was the plan.

    Model A carburetors are held on by a simple arrangement of nuts and bolts—designed, apparently, by someone who had a grudge against human hands. After scraping half the skin off my knuckles and inventing several new words not found in polite conversation, the carburetor finally came free.

    I placed it on my workbench, which at that moment was the perfect combination of organization and chaos. On one side, the shiny new rebuild kit lay in its box, full of promise. On the other side lay a pile of tools, old coffee cups, and a fossilized donut I’d been meaning to throw away since last summer.

    I opened the carburetor and was immediately greeted by a small avalanche of black sludge, varnish, and enough dirt to plant a tomato garden.

    “Ah,” I said, nodding sagely. “No wonder it wasn’t running right.”

    According to the instructions in the rebuild kit, this was supposed to be a straightforward job. Simply replace the gaskets, clean the parts, reassemble, and enjoy smooth performance!

    This sounded suspiciously like those cooking shows where the chef whips up a seven-course meal in half an hour, while you’re at home burning toast and setting off the smoke alarm.

    I cleaned every piece meticulously, or at least until my attention span ran out. Brushing away years of grime felt oddly satisfying—like uncovering ancient treasure. By the time I was done, the parts gleamed.

    Reassembly, however, was another matter entirely.

    Model A carburetors are a study in simplicity, yet somehow, there are always three extra parts left over when you’re finished. I carefully followed the diagram, checked my work, and still found myself staring at a mysterious screw that didn’t seem to belong anywhere.

    I considered asking a friend for help but remembered the last time I did that. The “help” consisted mostly of him saying, “Huh, that doesn’t look right,” and then wandering off to get a sandwich.

    With everything bolted back together and the carburetor reinstalled, I stood back to admire my work. It looked beautiful, like a piece of functional art.

    “Here goes nothing,” I muttered, turning the key and pulling the choke.

    The engine coughed once, like an old man clearing his throat, then roared to life. It ran smoother than it had in years.

    I grinned, basking in my moment of triumph. I’d done it! I’d rebuilt a Model A carburetor and lived to tell the tale!

    Just then, a small metallic ping sounded, and the idle went from silky smooth to chaotic clattering. I looked down to see that mysterious screw lying on the ground, mocking me.

    Rebuilding a carburetor teaches you patience, humility, and the value of keeping a fire extinguisher nearby.

    But it also connects you to the past in a way few other things can. Somewhere in the 1930s, a man in overalls likely stood under a tree doing exactly what I had just done—fiddling with jets and gaskets, wiping sweat from his brow, and wondering if maybe, just maybe, that extra screw wasn’t important.

    So, if you find yourself elbow-deep in a Model A carburetor one day, take heart. Even if you don’t get it perfect the first time, you’ll have earned a story worth telling.

    And stories, like Model A Fords, are meant to keep running forever.

  • What is Grace?

    Grace is one of those words that carries incredible depth, yet is often misunderstood or taken for granted. It is simple to say but profound to experience. At its heart, grace is unearned, undeserved favor — a gift freely given, not because of anything we’ve done, but because of love. It is the bridge between our imperfections and the goodness we long to experience.

    In spiritual terms, grace is most often associated with God’s love for humanity. It is the divine kindness that offers forgiveness, hope, and redemption even when we fall short. In the Christian faith, grace is at the very center of the relationship between God and people. It’s what makes it possible for us to come before Him, not through our own works or worthiness, but through His mercy. As the Apostle Paul wrote, “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith — and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God” (Ephesians 2:8). This means that grace is not earned by good deeds; it is given freely, simply because God loves us.

    But grace is more than a theological idea — it is a practical force in our daily lives. Grace is the patience we show others when they frustrate us. It’s the kindness we extend to someone who doesn’t “deserve” it, the compassion we offer to a hurting friend, and the forgiveness we grant to those who have wronged us. In this way, grace flows through us, transforming not only our own hearts but also the lives of those around us.

    In families, grace is especially important. None of us are perfect; we make mistakes, say hurtful words, and sometimes fail to meet expectations. Grace allows us to look past shortcomings and see the person beneath the error. When a parent shows grace to a child who has made a mistake, or when a spouse forgives another after a disagreement, it builds a foundation of trust and love that can weather life’s storms. Grace doesn’t excuse bad behavior, but it opens the door for healing and reconciliation.

    Grace also teaches humility. Accepting grace means admitting that we cannot do everything on our own. It is a reminder that we all depend on something — or someone — greater than ourselves. This can be a humbling realization, but it also brings peace. Knowing that we are loved and valued, even in our weakness, allows us to let go of pride and embrace gratitude.

    In a broader sense, grace can change the way we view the world. When we understand that we are recipients of countless blessings — our health, our families, our daily bread, even the very breath in our lungs — we begin to see life itself as a gift. This mindset shifts us away from entitlement and toward thankfulness. It makes us more generous, more forgiving, and more hopeful.

    Grace is also active in the smallest moments. It appears when someone holds a door open, offers a warm smile, or gives an encouraging word. These simple acts might seem insignificant, but they ripple outward, creating a culture of kindness. When we choose to live with grace, we participate in something much larger than ourselves — a chain of goodness that connects past, present, and future.

    Ultimately, grace is both a gift and a calling. It is freely given to us by God, and it is something we are invited to share with others. In doing so, we become vessels of hope in a world that often feels harsh and divided. Grace softens hearts, mends relationships, and reminds us that love is stronger than judgment.

    So what is grace?
    It is the hand extended when we stumble, the light that shines in darkness, and the voice that says, “You are loved, just as you are.” It is the quiet, transformative power that turns meals into moments of gratitude, homes into havens of peace, and lives into testimonies of compassion. Grace is not something we earn — it is something we live, something we give, and something we cherish, day by day.

  • The Importance of Saying Grace at Dinner

    In our busy modern world, it is easy to rush through meals without a second thought, treating dinner as just another task to check off the day’s long list of responsibilities. But saying grace before a meal is far more than a quaint old tradition. It is a deeply meaningful act that connects us to our faith, our family, and the blessings we often take for granted.

    At its core, saying grace is about gratitude. When we pause before eating to give thanks, we acknowledge that the food before us is a gift — not just from the store or the farm, but ultimately from God, who provides the rain, the sun, the earth, and the life that sustains us. This simple act turns an ordinary dinner into a sacred moment. It reminds us that we are recipients of countless unseen blessings, from the hands that prepared the meal to the loved ones gathered around the table.

    Saying grace also brings families together. In a time when distractions like phones, television, and the pressures of daily life can pull us apart, a spoken prayer serves as a unifying moment. When everyone bows their heads together, differences fade and a sense of shared purpose fills the room. For children, this practice plants seeds of faith and gratitude that will stay with them for life, teaching them that meals are not just about feeding the body but also nourishing the spirit.

    There is also a powerful historical and cultural significance to this tradition. For generations, our ancestors gave thanks before every meal, whether it was a feast or a simple loaf of bread. Those prayers were whispered during hardships, droughts, wars, and celebrations alike. By continuing this practice, we honor their memory and keep alive a chain of faith that stretches back centuries. It connects us to those who came before us — people who may not have had much, but who always recognized the importance of thankfulness.

    Beyond faith, saying grace encourages mindfulness. In today’s fast-paced society, meals are often hurried. By taking a moment to pause, breathe, and reflect, we slow down and truly appreciate what is before us. Studies even suggest that expressing gratitude can improve our mood, reduce stress, and strengthen relationships. Grace becomes more than a ritual; it becomes a practice that enriches our well-being and deepens our connections with others.

    Finally, saying grace gives us perspective. Many in the world go to bed hungry, not knowing where their next meal will come from. By giving thanks, we are reminded of our responsibility to help those in need. It encourages us to live generously, to share our blessings, and to approach life with humility.

    In the end, saying grace is a small act with immeasurable impact. It takes only a few moments, yet it has the power to transform a meal into a celebration of faith, family, and gratitude. Whether the prayer is long and eloquent or simple and heartfelt, what matters most is the spirit behind it. Each time we bow our heads and give thanks, we reaffirm what is truly important — love, provision, and the presence of God in our daily lives.

    So tonight, before you lift your fork, pause and reflect. Speak words of thanks, even if they are just a whisper. In that brief, quiet moment, you will find yourself part of a timeless tradition that feeds not only the body, but also the soul.