My parents bought our first car, a Ford, 4-door sedan, back in 1933. (I was 10 years old)
On a summer vacation, we took a trip out West. Along the way, our engine overheated. Dad took it to a garage to have it fixed. We then continued on our way. But the engine heated up again! Once more we stopped at a garage to have it fixed.
The engine heated up for the third time as we limped into Salt Lake City. By now, dad was really upset. (I have better words to explain how he felt, but we’ll stick with upset.) He either wired, or phoned Henry Ford and told him about our problem.
Mr. Ford had two engineers flown to Salt Lake City with orders to fix our car.
I remember that one of them came to our hotel room later that day and said that the car was ready and we should all go for a test drive.
The engineer drove; dad sat up front, and mother and I sat in the back. Well, he drove out of the city and proceeded up a mountain. I remember him maintaining a rather fast speed, probably the speed limit, all the way up that mountain, passing numerous cars along the way.
I watched the temperature gauge and it never quivered above normal the whole way up that mountain! The engine was fixed. Boy, was it ever!
When we got back to the hotel, dad asked how much he owed. The man said, “Not a thing, Mr. Myrick—compliments of Henry Ford.”
To summarize—Marie and I traded that Chevy Malibu for—guess what?