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As early as I can remember, my greatest interest was in cars. At thirteen years of age, I read just about every automotive magazine that I could get my hands on. I spent as much time as possible at the nearby Pole Tavern Traffic Circle, where there was neither pole nor tavern, but always an abundance of cars. At sixteen, I founded a car club, "Circle City Customs" and had calling cards and bumper stickers printed. The guys at the circle bought them for their cars. The name "Circle City" stuck to this day.

Mickle's Market was a general grocery store located on the traffic circle where the Wawa store now stands. In 1951 my father put a new roof on the store and I earned a few dollars helping. "Pop Harvey" overheard me naming the year, make, model, type of motor and transmission of each car that passed. He called up to me, "I'm not paying you to look at cars; keep your eyes on the work!" Another man, Frank, was working with me and convinced my father that I wasn't looking at the cars, but identifying them by their sounds. My father watched in disbelief as I continued to correctly identify the next four or five cars. Then he said, "Well stop it anyhow; Frank always looks to see if you are right!"

I liked to spend time at Circle City even before I owned a car. One night, a drunk drove into one of the service stations. He had just bought a 1935 Ford coupe and was bragging about how fast it could go. Several guys started kidding him and I decided to get in on the fun. I asked if he wanted to race my bike around the circle. He gave me an angry look and said that I had better not make fun of his car. The others thought the race would be a good idea and encouraged him to take me up on the offer. They even started taking bets on who would win! He finally agreed to the race.

Three times, we were flagged for the start and all three times, his car stalled. On the fourth try, the car stalled again. The inebriated driver was so angry that he slammed his fist through the windshield! By this time all of us were curious as to whether a bike could round the circle faster than a car. One of them agreed to try his car and I actually won the race!


When I was fifteen, I spotted a lovely '40 Ford coupe for sale at the Circle Sunoco. The owner was asking two-hundred dollars and I had enough money. In my imagination, I had already "customized" the body and "souped up" the flathead V8 engine, but Pop heard of my plans and promptly vetoed the idea. "You can't get your drivers license until you are seventeen", he argued, "You are NOT buying a car!" I attempted to explain that I only wanted to work on it and not drive it, but my arguments fell on deaf ears.

A week or two later, on October 2, 1954, Pop came home from work with an impish grin on his face. That grin usually meant a special treat for someone and this time it was for me! He said that if I was really serious about getting a car "just to work on", he had found the ideal project car. It was a 1924 Model "T" Ford. The car belonged to Merrill Foster, who owned the John Deere dealership at Circle City. He claimed to be sentimentally attached to his "tin Lizzie" but would be willing to part with the treasure for only thirty dollars. It was clear that I would either wait until I turned seventeen or take advantage of this opportunity. I chose the latter. After all, a Model "T" roadster, coupe or even a pick-up truck could make a fabulous "hot rod"! We drove to Mr. Foster's farm right after supper.

When I saw the car, my heart sank into my shoes. It was a 4-door sedan! In my estimation, 4-door cars fell into the same category as cars with mud-flaps, winged hood ornaments and giant dice hanging from their rear view mirrors. I didn't even like 2-door sedans, but 4-door cars were only for families with lots of kids. I would certainly become the laughing stock of all my friends, but it was too late to back out.

We pumped up the tires, which amazingly enough held air, and towed my "prize" home. I parked it in front of the garage and covered it with a tarp, so people would not be so likely to see it. I laid awake most of that night imagining the reaction of my friends when they discovered that I had purchased a 4-door, Model "T" Ford! Sometime during that night, I decided to restore the vehicle as an antique! This would not only diminish the importance of the body style, but if I did a good job, the car could be sold for enough money to buy a "real" car!

I spent many hours working on the car. My father seemed more elated about my acquisition than I was. He had owned several Model "T"s and his experience proved invaluable. Soon I bought a second Model "T" for spare parts, this time a 1922 wood-sided taxi that someone had irreverently converted into a delivery van. The restoration was not a professional a job, but for a fifteen-year-old, it was a commendable effort. My efforts were more than compensated by the people who stopped to admire progress. Few kids my age were engaged in restoring an antique car. The project attracted as much attention as a custom or hot rod, but there was one big drawback: it was not fast! Nevertheless, I gained a deep respect and appreciation for historic vehicles which remains to this day.

My first car at 15 years of age was a 1924 Model T Ford sedan, which I rebuilt and restored. The one to the right came soon afterwards, but was used for parts.


While in High School I joined the "Future Farmers of America". I had no intention of becoming a farmer, but there was a large workshop in the FFA Department where farm boys could learn to weld, rebuild engines and do other interesting things. I found working with my hands to be much more satisfying than studying Algebra, World History and Social Studies.

In the FFA classes, we learned that exhaust gas contains unburned particles of fuel. The teacher demonstrated this on the exhaust of a tractor with a welding torch. In that moment, an idea was born in my mind. At home, I was restoring a Model-T Ford, which used "ignition coils" to fire the sparkplugs. An ignition coil could send a continuous charge of electricity to a sparkplug, welded into the tailpipe of a car! I began to imagine a flame throwing exhaust pipe lighting up the night!

My best friend Paul Trumbull, volunteered his 1948 Studebaker for the experiment. Looking like two airplane cockpits welded end to end, it was an ideal car for our undertaking. The six-cylinder engine even had a split manifold and dual exhaust system. We installed cable-controlled muffler by-passes on both exhaust pipes. This not only allowed a maximum amount of unburned fuel to reach the sparkplugs, but it also provided the appropriate sound effects! A hex nut with the same thread as the sparkplugs was sliced in half with a hacksaw, and one half of the nut welded into each exhaust pipe about six inches from the end. One terminal of the Model "T" coil was connected to the car battery and the other to the sparkplugs. An electrical switch on the dashboard turned the "after burners" on and off and another cable activated the muffler bypasses.

A short test drive gave us the satisfaction of a job well done! Our experiment worked better than we could ever have anticipated. The blue and yellow flames were quite impressive at night. We were ready for some fun!

Our first excursion in the flame-throwing Studebaker was to the stock car races at Alcyon Park Raceway in Pitman. We parked the car on the infield near the pits just opposite the grandstands. When the races were over, Paul started his car, opened the by-passes and revved the engine to about 3000 RPM. When he let off the gas pedal, the "suck-back" in the exhaust pipes sounded like amplified machine-gun fire! A thousand astonished eyes were locked onto that Studebaker when Paul switched on the "afterburners" and sped for the exit.

Later that night, we located a long hill which led through a housing development. Paul drove the Studebaker as fast as it would go up the back side of the hill. Once over the top, we picked up speed rapidly. As the first houses came into view, Paul shifted the car back into first gear-overdrive, something that can probably only be done with a '48 Studebaker! The engine was internally hemorrhaging when he opened the exhaust by-passes and turned on the coil which fed the sparkplugs. The noise was deafening! Two gorgeous blue flames blasted several feet out of the exhaust pipes, illuminating fences and bushes as we passed. While Paul drove, I watched through the wrap-around back window. One porch light after another came on as people rushed from their houses and onto the street. At the bottom of the hill we turned off the afterburners and drove back to Circle City, laughing uncontrollably all the way! To this day I often wonder what residents of that hillside concluded about that unidentified flying object! For the next few months, I I got several more jobs installing flame throwers.


The 1946 Ford on the left was my first car after obtaining my driver's license at 17. I owned a total of 9 Ford "rag tops".

The '52 convertible was originally green. Tail fins were added and some chrome removed before painting. This was the very first airbrush flame paint job on a car east of the Mississippi!

For some reason, I was always infatuated with convertibles. Even as a small child, I dreamed of the day when I would have one of my own. Shortly before my seventeenth birthday, I began to shop around for my first "real" car. I wasn't really particular as long as it was a Ford "ragtop" from the '30s or '40s.

After running down several leads from newspaper ads, I decided to check out the junk yards. I planned to rebuild the car anyway, so it wouldn't need to be in A-1 condition. When I finally discovered my car, it was love at first sight! I found a 1946 Ford convertible in a Mullica Hill junk yard, that had been involved in a head-on collision. Someone had already removed the engine, but the junk dealer agreed to sell the remainder for $50. Parents and neighbors shook their heads in disbelief when I towed my dream car into the driveway. To them, my treasure was nothing more than scrap metal and belonged right where I had bought it!

I located fenders, hood and a bumper in another junk yard. The flat-head engine came from a '39 Mercury coupe that my cousin sold me for $20. It had a Ford truck engine with 25 additional HP. I spent every waking hour working on that car and every sleeping hour dreaming of what it would be like when finished. I removed most of the chrome trim and filled the holes. The rear end was lowered until it nearly scraped the ground. After adding fender skirts and sanding until my fingers were blistered, I drove the car to a body shop to have it painted. I chose the bright pink "Tropical Rose" of the new '55 Ford and did the interior in pink and black vinyl to match.

I painted my own cars after that. A neighbor once joked that I painted my cars more often than I washed them!

I loved the feel of rushing wind in my face, and the sense of freedom that only a "ragtop" can provide. I must admit that I didn't mind all the attention my cars got, but the big thrill was simply driving a convertible. With no roof, I could also hear the deep throated sound of the dual exhausts better than in a closed vehicle.

It probably was not intentional, but farmers always seemed to position their irrigation pipes so we convertible drivers would get drenched. If there was only one sprinkler next to the road, I would stop and wait until it turned before driving past. But more often than not, the farmers placed an entire row of sprinklers next to the road and there was no escaping them! After getting wet several times, I figured a way to get even with the farmers. I had driven tractors often enough to know that cultivating young corn or tomato plants was a tedious job. Whenever I passed the field of a farmer who was cultivating, I would slow down, honk my horn and wave frantically. The farmer could usually be distracted long enough to plow out several rows of tender young plants.

I liked to drive with the convertible top down in all kinds of weather, even in winter. In August of 1955, Hurricane Diane blasted the eastern seaboard, doing over 500 million dollars worth of damage and causing 184 deaths. I decided to see if my car could sail. I found a long, straight stretch of highway which ran parallel to the wind. After raising the canvas top to its highest point, I opened both doors and attained the respectable speed of 45 mph with the ignition turned off!

I wasn't particularly interested in girls. My main interest was cars, a subject girls could seldom relate to. Although girls liked boys who drove flashy convertibles, they would usually insist on putting the top up to keep the wind from ruining their permanents.


When the Doctor advised my father to drink goat's milk for his ulcers, my sister Helen thought it would be just great to have our own goat! Pop bought a goat and Helen was elated. Her joy lasted only a few days however, after which I was the one who had to feed and milk the beast.

The day came when our nanny gave birth to the cutest twin kids you ever laid eyes on. We all fell in love with the critters, but the love affair was short-lived. Pop came home from work one day and discovered that the kid goats had chewed the bark off his young fruit trees. Three of them could not be saved. While exchanging storm windows for screens (that was in the days before combination windows), the twins jumped through an open window into the house. They leaped onto tables, sofas and even managed to get onto the fireplace mantle. We chased them out but they found another open window and soon the chase was on again. It was an hour before we could finally pen them up.

The kid goats' meanest trick was played on me. I usually parked my car on the road by the lake, just outside my bedroom window. One morning I awoke to the pitiful bleating of the "twins" as we called them. I looked out the window to see those little brats on the roof of my convertible, eight little legs protruding through the roof, kicking frantically to get free! That was the last straw! I quickly pulled on my jeans and ran down the stairs, determined to make mince meat out of the rascals. They must have known what was on my mind, for they managed to extract themselves from their death trap before I got to them.


Although some of the cars I owned were plenty fast, there were enough others in the area that could have wiped me out. I didn't like to race because it was too easy to blow an engine or drop a transmission. I earned money repairing damage done to other cars while racing and was not eager to repair my own.

It was popular during the fifties to "de-chrome" a car. The DuPont Company came out with a fantastic fiberglass putty that became like steel when mixed with a hardener. I was one of the first in our area to try the new product on cars. I found it to be much easier to fill holes with fiberglass than to braze them shut and smooth them over with hot lead.

I also learned how to "chop a top" (cut a horizontal section out of the top of a car, welding it back together again); to "Z" a frame (cut and weld a car frame, to make it lower); "channel" the body (set the chassis down around the frame instead of on top of it) and much more. As I gained experience, friends started to ask for advice and I was beginning to feel like an expert! Within five years of graduation from High School, I had owned 25 cars! Three of them were featured in car magazines.

My reputation for fast cars came quite by chance. I was sitting in the Circle City Diner one evening, finishing a Boston cream pie and chocolate milkshake, when several hot rods pulled into the parking lot. The drivers climbed out of their roadsters and coupes and began to examine my car. After paying my bill, I left the diner and sauntered over to my pink convertible as though I owned the world. One of the strangers noticed a dual carburetor manifold lying on the back seat and asked if the car was fast. I lied to him, saying that the manifold had just been replaced by a triple carb manifold. He pointed to his fenderless coupe and asked if I wanted to drag.

The long and straight Elmer-Shirley Road was not far away. Without batting an eyelash, I heard myself saying, "title for title!" It was too late to back down now. I wondered what in the world had possessed me to make such an offer! Except for a racing cam and high compression heads, my engine was basically stock. The exhaust system however, sounded like pure power! I slipped behind the wheel, turned on the electric fuel pump and started the engine. It had a rough idle due to the cam, and must have scared the stranger. I gave him a side glance through the window and asked with an easy drawl, "Are we ready?

By this time at least a dozen others were standing around. The stranger asked, "Are you serious about that title business?" I turned to one of my buddies, who was looking on and asked, "Tell him if I'm serious!" He played the part better than I could ever have imagined. Pointing to his own car, he said, "I just bought my car back from him yesterday!" Fortunately for me, the stranger said that he needed to make some adjustments to his engine first. He climbed into his rod and drove off with tires screeching. I discovered later that he owned what was probably the fastest street rod in South Jersey! Word spread rapidly, that my car was even faster!

I owned three different 5-window Ford coupes and one roadster from 1931-32. I chopped the top of the '31 on the upper right. I later "Zd" the frame and channeled the body to fit over the frame instead of it sitting on top. I bought the Deuce Coupe below as a literal basket case. Except for the engine, there were no two parts connected, but it was all there and original! I channeled it and painted it my own paint mixture which I called Persimmon Red.

My '32 had a full-race '55 Plymouth mill. The 100% steel body was rare even in 1962!

I took two coupes in trade for another car and sold the '40 Ford Standard above to my brother, Dave the same day. I also sold him a '55 Chrysler Hemi V-8 which Dave promptly installed in his coupe. The 2-cycle 180cc Harley Davidson also belonged to Dave.

This '38 Ford roadster was built in the year of my birth. I painted it fire-engine red.


When Pop Harvey was building an addition onto the First Baptist Church in Elmer, he asked if he could drive my '38 Ford Roadster to the lumber yard. He used to own a '38 Ford and thought it would be fun to drive one again. My car was not a sedate family sedan like the one he had owned. I had altered so much on the vehicle that there were few similarities to the car he once owned. When he returned an hour later, his face was as red as the paint. He was reluctant to share details of his brief acquaintance with my car, but swore that he would never, ever, drive it again!

I heard the rest of the story from a reliable witness. It was a lovely October day and the convertible top was down. At the town's main intersection, the car stalled and refused to start. A group of teenage girls on their way home from High School stood on the corner and watched with amusement, as my father attempted to restart the engine. He remembered that those older cars usually had a hand-choke and pulled it out, but the "Ahoogah" horn sounded instead. He then accidentally stepped on a button which rang my "Bermuda Carriage Bell". When the engine finally started, he somehow activated the "Wolf Whistle," which operated off vacuum from the intake manifold. The girls were giggling and waving by this time. Pop got nervous, gave the car too much gas and screeching tires added a lovely soprano to the deep-throated bass of the dual exhaust system!


One lovely Sunday morning, Pop was driving Mom and ten of the kids to church. The eleventh (me) was following the family station wagon on Route 40 at slightly above the speed limit. I spotted the radar trap next to the highway, but since they let Pop go, I didn't bother to slow down. When the State Trooper pulled me over, I protested, "Why didn't you stop that station wagon? It was traveling at the same speed!" The policeman continued to write the ticket, at first ignoring my question. When he was finished, he handed me the ticket and explained, "That man had a car full of kids; he obviously can't afford to pay for a speeding ticket!

After church, one of the guys who had a rather fast '55 Chevy, decided to drive out to where the radar was set up to ask a favor of the police. He approached a State Trooper who was reading the meters and asked if he would be so kind as to check his speedometer. "Why certainly, son," the officer replied, "I would be glad to!" The youth then drove through radar at 80 mph! When he returned, the ticket was ready and waiting. "Here, you have it in writing, son," the officer grinned! That youth must have learned his lesson well, for he later became a bank president.

I developed a keen eye for patrol cars and radar traps, but the spectacular paint jobs and loud mufflers of my cars seemed to have a magnetic attraction for both Municipal and State Police. According to New Jersey law, one could lose his drivers license after accumulating twelve points. My points piled up so rapidly, that I had 22 points by the time my license was finally revoked.


Some of the stunts I pulled as a young person were not much different from those of any normal youth. Like the time I "borrowed" a large sign from a junkyard in Vineland and placed it in front of the Elmer funeral parlor. The sign read, "Good used Body Parts.

Many of the pranks we pulled as youth were somehow associated with Route 40 and the traffic circle. In the little town of Elmer, there was a dangerous curve on Route 40. Homes located in the curve were often mistaken for "drive-ins" by sleepy, drunk or careless drivers. Once, several of us posted ourselves under a street light in the curve, standing on both sides of the highway. Whenever a car approached too rapidly, we bent over and pretended to pick up a rope, bracing ourselves in a fixed pose as though we were stretching the rope across the street. The reaction of drivers varied. Nearly all stopped or slowed to a crawl. Some became angry and threatened us but others simply laughed. In any case, we would remain in our position without smiling or speaking until the car passed out of sight.

I wasn't always that safety conscious. Some things I did were downright dangerous. Like the time I tied the steering wheel of my car and let it idle around the traffic circle all by itself. The circle was perfectly round back in those days. Every few minutes, I had to run along side of the slowly moving vehicle and jump on the running board to make a course correction. This took place during the wee hours of the morning when few cars were on the road. Still, it was a rather stupid thing to do.

On another occasion, I taped two sealed beam headlights to a broom handle and wired them to a car battery. I carried this contraption out to a long, straight stretch of Route 40, where I stood with the lights turned on until a car appeared in the distance. As the car approached, I ran off the road with the headlights bouncing. After rolling the broomstick end for end, I turned off the lights and hid in a corn field. The drivers inevitably stopped to look for tire tracks. I quit after one driver reported the incident to the police. They searched the area with spotlights but fortunately for me, they were not looking for footprints!


Several of us worked nights in the two Pole Tavern service stations, pumping gas. It didn't pay much, but on summer weekends, there was always something going on at Circle City. Whoever pumped gas was certain to have plenty of company. Once, a friend named Norman, who stuttered, was manning the pumps. A big black Chrysler pulled in to get gas. The driver rolled down his window and said, "F-f-f-fi-fi-fi-fill er up!" Norm dutifully placed the nozzle in the tank and turned it on. He then returned to the driver's window and asked, "Sh-sh-sh-sh-shall I ch-ch-ch-ch-check the oil?" The driver thought Norm was mocking him and became angry. He shouted, "W-w-w-w-w-wise guy!", threw his car into drive, hit the gas and disappeared into the night. The gas hose was ripped from the pump and dragged several yards before it fell onto the road. Norm just stood there totally confused. Still holding the gas cap in his hand, he asked, "Wha-wha-what was e-e-eating hi-hi-him?" The rest of us were laughing so hard, our stomachs hurt!

When things got dull at Circle City, we could usually think of crazy things to do. Tomato farmers used to park their trucks and wagons loaded with tomatoes at the circle. There was a weigh station there, and the farmers could get an early start to the cannery by lining up for weighing the night before. One summer night, neither station was pumping much gas. We walked over to a truck and fetched a basket of tomatoes. At first, we just ate them, but then one of us threw a tomato at the guys in the station across the circle. Within seconds, an all-out tomato war was raging. After several baskets of ammunition had been expended and we were all dripping red, a customer drove into our station. He took one look at us and was ready to notify the ambulance and police, but we were able to convince him that there was no need for concern. We spent the next hour hosing down the stations and each other.


In May of 1956, I was involved in an escapade which ended in a wild police chase. One warm spring evening, a carload of guys drove into the gas station at Circle City. They had been taunting a drunk farmer "just for kicks". They drove past his house blowing the horn until he got into his old pickup truck and tried to chase them. He was so drunk, he could hardly keep his vehicle on the road.

Always ready for some fun, I jumped into my convertible and followed them to the farm. A friend was with me and a third car filled with youth also joined us. We drove to the farmhouse and began to blow our horns and yell, hoping the farmer would again chase us in his pickup. Sure enough, headlights turned on in the driveway and began to move rapidly toward the road. We fled the scene with exhaust pipes roaring and tires spinning.

What we did not know, was that the drunk farmer's wife had notified the police. Only after the patrol car turned on it's flashing red lights, did it become clear to us that we were not trying to out-run a drunk in an old truck! Instead of stopping to take our medicine, all three cars sped away as fast as we could travel, which was pretty fast! Arriving at an intersection with a stop sign, the driver of the first car switched off his lights and drove straight through. There was a curve after the intersection and he lost control of the vehicle, landing upside down in a field. The driver of the second car slammed on his brakes and appeared to be stopping, but instead, he too switched off his headlights, made a right turn, and disappeared into the night.

Almost rolling my own car in the process, I too turned off the lights, veered left and hit the gas. The friend who was riding with me confessed later that he had never been so scared in all his life. With lights off, I pushed my car to it's limit and was relieved to note in the rear view mirror, that the patrol car had stopped to check out the accident. Fortunately, no one was killed or badly injured in the crash. After taking my friend home, I parked the car behind our house and sneaked upstairs to bed.


To my dismay, a State Trooper showed up at our house the following day with a summons to appear in court. He had not been able to note my license tag, but had a clear description of the car (I discovered later, that someone at the traffic circle had provided the information). I tried denying, but it was of no use. The State Trooper said that if I could prove there was another pink convertible with flames painted across the hood and down the sides, he would consider the possibility of my innocence!

The day of our court appearance arrived and one driver involved had his driver's license revoked indefinitely. This was not his first serious offense. The driver of the accident car and I received stiff fines. After the hearing was over, I saw that the court clerk had left his desk unattended. On my way out of the courtroom, I reached out and grabbed the folder containing my records. I had 30 days to pay the fine, but decided to wait, hoping that I could get away without paying.

A month later, I received another summons to appear before the judge. There was no discussion at all. The judge simply ordered me locked up in the county jail for failing to pay the fine! I had not expected this! I pleaded for another chance and promised to pay the fine within 12 hours. It was of no use. The judge probably suspected that I had stolen the records, but he also knew that there was little hope of proving it. I soon found myself locked up in a smoke-filled room with a dozen or more inmates, wondering what to do next.

I recalled a previous occasion, when my father had to pick me up at the police station. I had skipped school and gotten caught shoplifting. I shall never forget the trip home. My father hardly spoke a word, but tears were streaming down his face. I tried to apologize, but he didn't answer. That was one occasion, when I didn't get a whipping, but I felt even worse for the pain I had inflicted on my parents.

The inmates welcomed me and invited me to play cards with them, but I declined. When supper was served, I had no appetite. I wondered how my parents would react and cringed at the prospect of them visiting me in jail!


The warden seemed to read my thoughts and asked for my name. He said that he knew my father and offered to let me call home. I declined. It seemed like an eternity, but after only six hours I was released. The warden apparently put in a good word for me. I was given exactly 24 hours to pay the fine, plus an additional fine for missing the deadline. I didn't have enough money and decided to sell my car rather than try to borrow the cash. I made numerous phone calls and drove to several used car lots. Finally, a used car dealer offered to take the car, but his offer was only a fraction of what it was worth. I accepted rather than risk going back to jail!

Some 35 years later, I was to be reminded again of this experience. In order to get a permanent visa in Austria, I needed to obtain a "Good Conduct Reference" from the Salem County Courthouse in New Jersey. The letter stated that my records had been searched back as far as June, 1956 and that no criminal records could be found. When my wife read that, she asked, "What did you do in May, 1956?"


I knew that God was trying to speak to me, but was still not prepared to listen. I should have been sobered by recent experiences, but my main concern was getting another car!

The owner of a junk yard near where I lived, seemed amused at the way I could put a decent car together, using parts from various junk cars. He would let me collect all the components and quote me a price when finished. I was not long without transportation. This time, my car cost only $50 less engine, which I had sitting in the garage at home. On May 29, 1957, I worked late into the night to get the car running. The next day was Memorial Day, and I had invited a girl to accompany me to the beach.


In the morning, I went to pick up my date. As I drove into the driveway of her house, there was a loud bang and steam began to escape from the engine compartment. I had forgotten to tighten down the bolts on the fan blade, which came loose, slicing the upper water hose. It was Memorial Day and no auto parts stores were open on holidays back then.

The girl's parents were Christians, and actually appeared to be relieved at my dilemma. They invited us to accompany them on a picnic to "Camp Haluwasa". The name sounds like an Indian name, but is actually derived from the words, "Hallelujah, what a Savior!" I was familiar with the camp, having been there with our church youth group. I had a great admiration for the founder and Director of the camp, Charlie Ashmen. We had much in common, particularly the enjoyment we received, making something worthwhile out of junk! Our youth group had helped to clear brush out of low lying areas, which later became lakes. I also helped with construction work on cabins and the main pavilion. Although I was not keen about riding with my date's parents, I always enjoyed visiting Camp Haluwasa. Besides, I had no other option! Little did I know, as I climbed into the back seat of their big Packard, that this was to be the last ride for the "old" Ralph Harvey!

During the picnic lunch, someone placed a closed can of baked beans in a charcoal griller. The can exploded, splattering me and others with hot beans. No one was injured, but it scared me.

In the afternoon, there was a meeting in the "Tabernacle", as the pavilion was called. I had helped to put on the roof just a few days earlier. During services, the swimming and boating areas were closed, so there was no way to escape attending the meeting. There was always lively singing with instrumental accompaniment at Camp Haluwasa. My sister Helen, even sang in the girl's trio. A visiting preacher preached on the parable of the prodigal son and as I listened, God spoke to me.

My mind wandered back to my first camping experience and that night by the campfire. I had reacted like any normal kid back then. The choice between heaven and hell, underscored by a blazing fire, was really no choice at all! It was not the prodding of the Holy Spirit and conviction of sin, which had induced me to make a "decision." I felt as though I had been tricked into a conversion.

I was also reminded of a summer night two years earlier, when God had spoken clearly to me. It was apparent that circumstances leading up to this moment could not be dismissed as "human manipulation", designed to trick me into becoming a Christian. Nor were recent events in my life the result of mere chance. I was under deep conviction of sin. I was the one who was obviously guilty of "dirty tricks"! I was a "prodigal son, wasting my substance in riotous living." This sermon was meant for me and I knew it! An invitation was given, but I could not raise my hand or go forward. This was a matter that had to be settled between God and myself. I prayed in my heart, confessing my wickedness and asking forgiveness. I promised God that I would live for him with all my heart and life. Still not certain if God had accepted or even heard me, I determined to keep my promise to God.


I must have been very quiet on the trip home. I can only remember wondering if my conversation with God had been heard. Over and over, I promised God that this time, I meant business! The second worst thing a person can do in this life is to refuse God's gift of forgiveness and eternal life. The worst thing is to accept that gift and then live as if it were of no value. I had held back for a long time, knowing that a conversion would mean yielding everything to God. But now I vowed to God, that I would go anywhere and do anything He wanted. From that moment on, I belonged to Him!

The following day, it seemed like the entire world was different. I can't explain the feeling, but the birds had never sung so pretty and the grass had never been so green. Some would claim that I had spring fever, but I somehow felt that God had taken me at my word. Two weeks later, a member of the church approached me, saying that he had noticed a remarkable change in me. I said that I had accepted Christ. That was my first testimony as a Christian. Some are still convinced that I was converted at a campfire service, but I know better! Apparently, I also "accepted Christ" as a small child on an Easter Sunday, for I have an undated letter from a missionary in Columbia congratulating me on this wonderful event!

Soon after my conversion, I had the first opportunity to put my new found faith to practical use. I had been given the job of picking up the badly damaged door of a mobile home, which was to be repaired. I was instructed to make a temporary replacement door which could be used until the original was repaired. The owner ran a service station and kept money in the trailer. He said that I would have to equip the makeshift door with a lock. I drove to a hardware store, looking for a lock that would do the job, but all to no avail. Then I remembered that I could pray! For what seemed like ages, I prayed, thought, studied and experimented, but could come up with no viable solution to the problem. Finally, I rigged a simple bar latch to the inside of the door, drilled a hole and bent a stiff wire so that the door could be opened from the outside by inserting and turning the wire. The owner was not home, so I explained to his wife how the "lock" worked and left.

All the way home I wondered why God had failed to answer my prayers. I began to wonder if anything had changed after all. Had I simply fooled myself into thinking that I was a child of God? I even had difficulty sleeping that night. The next day, the door was repaired and I headed for the mobile home, hoping that the owner would not be home and that burglars had not cleaned him out. To my amazement, the owner of the mobile home was full of praise for my "clever invention"! He said he had told people, that there was no way to devise a lock without drilling holes in the mobile home. When he arrived home that evening and inspected the job, he couldn't get over how simple, yet effective that lock was. "No burglar would ever guess that he only needed a piece of wire to get in", he said. "That was a stroke of genius!" "Oh no," I replied, "I just prayed about it and this is what I came up with."

While installing the new door, I asked God to forgive me for my lack of faith and poor attitude. As I was cleaning up, I suddenly realized that I could have simply unscrewed the lock from the damaged door and attached it to the temporary door. The job could have been completed in a few minutes and the owner would even be able to use his key! But that would not have been conceived as a "stroke of genius" nor an answered prayer, so God led otherwise!


I had an unsettling experience soon after my conversion. Several Christian youth admitted that they had actually envied me in my unsaved condition. I was miserable and under conviction of sin, yet these Christians had actually been jealous of me! They were even looking to me as a role model, "the guy who had everything going for him"!

I had never seen myself in any kind of an enviable position, yet looking back now, I can understand. Our family lived in a spacious house next to a lake, with boating, fishing and swimming on our doorstep. The Delaware River was not far away and it was only an hour's drive to the New Jersey beaches. My father was a successful builder and as the oldest son, my future looked bright. My annual income in 1956 was $2,274, certainly not as much as some earned, but in those days it was enough to purchase a new Ford or Chevy and keep it filled with gasoline for a year. I had plenty of reason to be thankful to God, but for 19 years, I wasn't.


As a child, I used to spend hours creating miniature towns with houses made of twigs, moss for grass and ground pine for trees. I always enjoyed making valuable things from worthless material or fixing things that others had broken and discarded. It gave me more satisfaction to restore old cars or build them from junkyard parts than buying a new one ever could have given. Restoring magnificent works of art is also a rewarding challenge (see next section: "More Car Stories").

I think that is how God must have looked at me. For 19 years I did what I wanted with my life until I had made a mess of it. When I was completely down, however, God picked me up and restored me. The Bible calls this becoming a "new creature". When God makes us over, there is very little to remind you of the former depraved and desolate condition. The Apostle Paul was filled with hatred and persecuted the Christian church, but God entered his life and he was struck down, blind and helpless. Once Paul committed himself to the Creator, God began to show the world what wonderful things He could do with that life. I married a wonderful wife and we have served as missionaries for the past 38 years.

I still enjoy working on old cars and fixing things. I can appreciate the hard work that goes into a good restoration job. But my greatest joy and thrill is working with people who have been cast off by society who are transformed by God into valuable and fruitful individuals. We worked 10 years with drug addicts and a good number are now happy, productive Christians. We have seen lives changed by Christ in our youth ministries. We have seen lives formed in the Bible Institute. When we leave this earth, we must leave car, house and things behind, but the people in which we have invested our lives will spend eternity with us. What a reward that is!

There is another lesson I have learned from working with old cars. The greatest treasure is finding a well preserved car that has received good care and been kept in good condition. That certainly beats trying to restore a badly abused rust bucket! After retirement, I bought my wife a 30-year old Mercedes SLC, which was well cared for and almost like new (read the rest of the story at the end of this article). I encourage young people to be what their creator intended them to be, to live according to his design, and take care not to abuse their bodies and souls. Preserved treasure is better than restored treasure, but God delights in both.


I bought this '40 Ford Deluxe Coupe while in college. It never got past the gray primer stage before I sold it.

Slightly modified '46 Mercury coupe and '54 Ford

I found learning at the University to be more difficult than I had imagined. I should have applied myself more in High School, but now was not the time for remorse, but rather for hard work! Because I received no financial help from home, I had to work many hours after classes and during vacations. My carpenter experience proved helpful in finding employment in the school repair shop, fixing broken furniture.

There was no end of original ways I discovered to save money. I made regular visits to the showers, collecting leftover scraps of soap from the soap dishes. By pressing these together while still soft, they could be formed into nice, multi-colored soap bars. To earn money, I bought and sold articles and ran errands. I always delighted in making useful and worthwhile things from other people's rubbish. I began to make minor appliance repairs. Once a month, there was a "Lost & Found Auction" on the University campus. I purchased broken or damaged items, especially umbrellas, and after fixing them, sold them for a handsome profit. My roommates complained about the room looking like an umbrella factory, but I did provide them with free umbrellas.

My experience with cars also came in handy (my driver's license was restored after six months). I discovered that old cars were plentiful and inexpensive in South Carolina, where they don't use salt on the highways. For the same reason, late model cars were cheaper in the North. After summer and Christmas holidays, I purchased cars with my hard-earned money. After necessary repairs and sometimes painting them, I would drive them back to college and sell them for a profit. For the trip north, I bought "oldies" to sell in New Jersey. Filling the car with paying passengers more than covered travel expenses.


Towards the beginning of my second semester, the University Art Museum was looking for someone to help with alterations on picture frames. The shop foreman recommended me for the job. I found the work challenging and soon became an expert at applying gold leaf, wood carving, and other processes involved in making picture frames.

The process of making new frames appear old, called "antiquing", was exactly the opposite of what I usually did. But the principle is the same. That inner longing to make something worthwhile from substances of little value, found ample opportunity to express itself in making picture frames. Chestnut trees, which had been killed by a blight, were riddled with perfectly natural worm holes. One could still locate wood from these trees on a few farms. Frames made from wormy chestnut were difficult to distinguish from the "genuine" articles. In addition to chemical substances, I experimented successfully with coffee grounds, shoe polish, carbon paper, sandpaper and just plain dirt. The Owner of a large custom frame manufacturer in New York City was so impressed with my work, that he offered me a lucrative job after graduation. God had other plans for me.

I also learned to do specialized work, such as cleaning and restoration of paintings and icons. The most challenging and fascinating job was transferring paintings from warped wooden panels to canvas. For this, we had a giant heat table filled with wax. The painted side of the panel was covered with a very thin plastic attached with a special glue that could not harm the painting. Then we turned the heat on until the wax liquefied, taking the shape of the painting surface. A vibrator helped eliminate air pockets. The wax was then allowed to cool. Then began the tedious process of carefully scraping wood from the back side of the panel. The process slowed down considerably as we neared the gesso ground coat. When all traces of the wood were removed, the wax was re-heated to allow the painting to flatten. It would then be allowed to harden again for the final step; attaching the canvas.


In my Senior year, I twice drove a large truck to New York City to pick up paintings and medieval furniture for the Art Gallery. A student accompanied me on the first trip. We left at night and I asked if he wanted to drive first, but he said "no". Instead of sleeping, however, he talked incessantly. I finally told him to drive while I slept, but he kept talking so that I couldn't sleep. When I finally did drift off, a sudden jolt awoke me. The huge truck had veered onto the shoulder and was precariously close to a ditch. My companion had fallen asleep at the wheel! I reached over and grabbed the wheel, guiding the vehicle safely back onto the roadway. I insisted on driving the rest of the way myself just to stay alive. My companion slept like a baby for the remainder of the trip!

I was accompanied the second time by a member of staff and we had an uneventful trip to the city, but arrived in New York on garbage collection day!. When we finally reached our destination, we parked the truck on a street where parking lights were required. The 24-volt battery was dead in the morning, so we took it to a garage for fast charging while we loaded the truck. I got the job of re-installing the battery and will never forget that experience. I dropped an open-end wrench, which landed on the battery, short circuiting the connecting posts. With a loud bang, the battery literally exploded, spraying me with pieces of battery and acid. Without a moment of hesitation, I stripped down to my under shorts in the middle of that busy New York street! The truck cab needed a new paint job after that, and a new pot-hole was added to the street, but fortunately for me, only a few drops of acid landed on my skin. My clothes were ruined. Since my arrival at the university, I had gained several additional career options, but "truck driver" was struck from the list that day!


For the final trip home after graduation, I purchased a 1950 Packard from a University Art Professor for $45. A tree had fallen on the car, crushing the roof almost down to the seats. Otherwise, the car was in great condition. I crawled inside and laying on the seat, kicked out the roof with my feet. I sprained an ankle in the process but it worked.

I had no money before our wedding, not even enough to buy an engagement ring. Income from various jobs, buying and selling cars etc. was barely enough to pay off my college debts. A month before our wedding, I borrowed $700 from the bank and purchased a 28' 1956 Cadet Buddy trailer for our first home. It needed a lot of work, but after painting it, installing a new hot water heater, Formica counter top and making other repairs, it was livable. When we sold it a year later, we got all of our money back including the cost of improvements.

When we got married, we had a '50 Packard. Verna bought this '50 Oldsmobile Rocket 88 for $150 while I was at work. We drove our "Merry Oldsmobile" until shortly before leaving for Austria.


Our wedding took place in the First Baptist Church of Meadville on March 9th, 1963. My brothers dutifully decorated our old Packard and Verna's parents helped to make our wedding a memorable one. Years afterward, the pastor stated that ours was the nicest wedding of his career. My father injured his back shortly before the wedding date and had to lay on his back for the eight-hour trip across Pennsylvania. Hundreds of relatives and guests attended the wedding, bringing piles of lovely gifts. I only had about $50 to my name and was secretly hoping for some cash gifts, but there was no such luck!

We left in our Packard for a two-night honeymoon in Niagara Falls. The weather was icy cold and snow drifts along the road nearly reached the telephone wires. Our motel room was equipped with steam heat and a TV, yet cost only $4 per night. Gasoline was cheap and we ate inexpensive meals, so we still had $5 when we arrived back in New Jersey. Half way home, the rear wheel bearing started to make strange noises and by the time we reached the Delaware Memorial Bridge, it was literally screaming. We prayed the car all the way to our little trailer home. As we drove into the driveway, the car stopped and refused to budge another inch. Later inspection showed that the wheel bearing was welded to the axle from the heat! A farm implement dealer happened to have an old Packard sitting on his lot and agreed to sell me the entire rear axle for my last $5.


I owned over 40 cars before leaving for Austria in 1964, but during our first year in Austria, we had no car whatsoever. For a car nut, that is a long time to be without wheels! Vienna has a great public transportation system, but we wanted to see some of the scenery we had heard so much about. Our problem was money. Our monthly income of $212 was equivalent to what my weekly salary had been in America.

In June, 1965, we became acquainted with a Swedish Christian lady who was visiting Vienna. Three months later, she sent us a check for $120 to use any way we wanted. Just the previous day, I had spotted the "perfect car" on my way home from the university. It was a twelve-year-old 1952 "Pretzel" Volkswagen, so named because of the shape of its double rear window. The car had been purchased new during the allied occupation of Austria when cars were scarce and expensive. It even had a canvas sunroof. That was as close to a convertible as I would ever dare to own as a missionary! There were air vents by the front doors, mechanical turning signals that flipped out of slots behind the doors and an unsynchronized 4-speed transmission. The 27 hp engine was not much compared to what I was accustomed to, but it would have to do. The owner agreed to the price I offered ($120) so we were soon the proud owners of this car. A year later, the engine breathed its last breath, but not before showing us some of the most delightful scenery that we had ever laid eyes upon.

Above: 1952 VW with split rear window and winkers; 1957 VW Samba Bus with 27 windows!

I donated our old beetle to a pastor for parts and purchased a 1957 VW Samba Bus. It was in great condition except that the 32 HP engine had died. It is no wonder too, for this limited edition 9-passenger bus was really heavy! It boasted lots of extra chrome trim, a large canvas sunroof, pleated vinyl seats, 27 windows and a double insulated floor. The latter not only kept the frame from rusting, but also allowed a trickle of hot air produced by the air-cooled boxer engine to escape the forward vents. None of this precious heat was allowed to warm the feet, for every bit was needed to keep the windshield transparent. After installing a new engine, the Samba served us well. The biggest drawback was driving in winter, not only because you could get frostbite, but this vehicle was not easy to keep on the road in snow. You had to get it up to full speed going downhill if you didn't want to push it all the way up the next. The real trick was shifting back to second and then first gear without destroying the transmission.

When Verna's father offered to loan us money to purchase a brand new VW Bus in 1967, we were delighted. The new van had 50 HP and a 12-volt battery! If we had stored our first two VWs in a garage somewhere, we could get a fortune for them today!

Fiat Multipla, Predecessor of the Modern Minivan


Our first place of ministry was in a town called Ampflwang. If you ever hear of another word that contains five consecutive consonants, let me know! We were asked to fill in for other missionaries while they were on furlough. The church had a Fiat Multipla for church use and the missionary also had a Multipla for personal use. These vehicles, which were first produced in 1956, were predestined to become the favorite missionary transportation, with only 19 HP and a seating capacity for six or seven persons! It was a true forerunner of the modern minivan. In 2001, Fiat reminded the world of this fact by producing a new Multipla.

The missionary we were substituting for, decided to fly to America for additional study and asked us to sell his Multipla. It was a newer 1960 model with seven seats and 27 PS. He was asking $500. Our mission co-workers, Frank and Gwen Wiebe owned an older Multipla that was badly rusted and constantly in need of repairs. Worst of all, the engine threatened to give up the ghost at any time. They desperately needed another car but had no money.

Verna and I were praying about this matter one morning, when a lady we had met in Vienna suddenly came to mind. I stopped praying and asked Verna if she remembered her. It was towards the end of our language study when we met her and at the time, our acquaintance seemed quite casual. She was traveling through Europe with a tour group and found the address of the Baptist Church in a phone book. When she appeared in the morning worship service, we offered to translate for her and invited her to Sunday dinner. After the meal, we drove her back to the hotel in our "Pretzel". In parting, she gave us her address and said, "Please send me your newsletters. And if you ever have a special need, let me know. Perhaps I can help out in some way."

I recalled that the lady was from Texas and the missionary who was selling the Multipla was studying in Texas. Should we write her?" Verna agreed that it would be worth a postage stamp, so we sent off a friendly letter, telling about our work and family. Then we reminded her what she had once told us and mentioned the needs of our co-workers. Within ten days we received her reply. She wrote, "I went to the bank to deposit some money, but arrived right after the bank closed. I was at first disappointed, but the Lord seemed to tell me that He needed that money. I returned home and found your letter in the mail. The amount needed for the car corresponded exactly to the money I was going to deposit!" She had contacted the school and gotten the missionary's address. A check for $500 had already been sent to him and our friends could pick up their car immediately!

We notified Frank and Gwen of the good news. They promptly wrote a warm letter of thanks to their unknown benefactor. They had been driving their car for two weeks, when the letter was returned unopened. One word was stamped on the envelope: "Deceased"!

1956 BUICK

Verna's father bought a new Oldsmobile in 1967. Because his old '56 Buick Super was such a good-running car and the dealer wouldn't give him much in trade, he parked it behind the house. When we came home for our first furlough, he offered us the car. It was an unusual tri-color, 4-door hardtop which had basically the same body as the Cadillac El Dorado. The car boasted a Dynaflow transmission, radio with automatic search activated by a foot pedal, air conditioning, electric windows and much more. The car was rusty, but it ran like a dream and even got good mileage for its size. The floor of the trunk was rusted completely through and we had to carry our belongings in the back seat with the boys. But there was plenty of room in that car!

In May, we farmed out our boys to my sister and headed for South Carolina for a conference. Somewhere in Virginia, I heard a loud noise and looked in the rear view mirror just in time to see a large piece of fender bouncing on the pavement. I stopped and removed the metal from the highway and tore another loose piece from the car as a precaution.

We arrived back in New Jersey after 1200 otherwise uneventful miles of traveling and I decided to change the oil. I drove the car into the garage over the grease pit, but when I applied the brakes, the brake pedal went to the floor! The car kept rolling until it rammed a work bench. I was relieved to see that little damage had been done, but when I discovered the cause of the problem, I turned white. The brake line had rusted through and didn't break until I was driving into the garage!

During a visit at my brother's house, I noticed a pink and white '56 Buick with no tags sitting in his neighbor's yard. I asked my brother if it was for sale. He called and the owner replied, "It is my wife's car, but she is very sick and can no longer drive." They sold us the car for $50.

The Buick had been driven mainly in the south and had no rust. It was a smaller Century model, but otherwise identical to ours. As a youth, I liked pink and painted two of my cars that color, but pink didn't seem like the right color for a missionary car. I de-chromed the trunk, put dual exhausts on it and painted it red and white - an ideal missionary car!

When we were ready to return to Austria, I put a "for sale" sign in the window. That evening we attended a funeral and the Funeral Director's son saw my car. He had just wrecked his Corvette and needed another car until his was fixed. He handed me $350 and even drove us home from the funeral.

1956 Buick Century after painting and 1968 Renault R-10

1968 RENAULT R-10

During our furlough in 1968, my brother, Bob, loaned us his economical new Renault for a trip to the Northwoods of Michigan. We fell in love with the little car and decided it would be nice to have a car like that someday.

We served in the large city of Linz during our second term in Austria. There were enormous distances involved in our many ministries. Many Sundays I preached in three churches, driving hundreds of kilometers. We were also responsible for the youth work and since two of the youth had gone together to purchase a VW Bus, there was no longer any need for us to have one. In July, 1969, we decided to sell it and purchase a more economical car. I received permission from the owner of a service station to put our bus on his parking lot with a "For Sale" sign in the window. The following day, there was a nearly new 1968 Renault R-10 sitting right next to it. It had less than 5,000 miles on the tachometer, but had been sideswiped. The owner said he was going to fix it up to sell. I expressed an interest and when he named an unbelievably low price, a contract was soon signed. After selling our bus, we even had money left over!


A year later, our third child was born and we felt a bit cramped in the little Renault. Verna began to talk about how convenient the VW Bus had been, but I reminded her that it was also expensive to drive.

The first Japanese cars were introduced in Austria in 1970. Mazda was first and a year later, Toyota. People were leery about how well they would hold up and whether parts and services would be available. Because the cars were not selling, Mazda dealers dropped prices and began to invent ways to promote them. They offered cars to taxi owners at dealer's cost with the condition that they keep accurate records on economy and repairs.

I saw a little white Mazda station wagon in a showroom one day and stopped to look. The young salesman didn't want to miss a chance to sell and started to bargain with me. While he talked, I did some calculating in my head. Our Renault was only three years old, looked and ran great, but it needed tires, shocks, brakes and other minor repairs worth about $600. The salesman offered me more than we had paid for the Renault and the difference seemed manageable. When he tried to seal the deal, I said, "I need to go home and pray with my wife about this." Thinking he had heard incorrectly, the salesman asked, "You pray about buying cars?" I assured him that this was our practice.

When I returned the next day, he was more interested in my prayer life than in selling the car. He began coming to our youth center and we became good friends. He and his wife even came to our home for Sunday dinner, but he couldn't bring himself to accept Christ. His staunch Catholic family had all but severed relationships with him when he married a Muslim girl. If he became a believer, he felt he would also lose his wife. No, he couldn't make that sacrifice.

But we bought the car! I kept good mileage records and that information helped our salesman friend sell more cars.


In February, 1972, a boy who attended our youth center moved to Germany. I noticed that his 1961 150cc Vespa was still parked along the road getting rusty, so on a visit to his home, I asked him about it. He handed me the title and said, "You can have it!"

I worked over the engine until it purred like a kitten. Then I repainted it and put it up for sale.

In order to sell it, I needed to transfer the title to my own name, but it wasn't necessary to get tags. At the Motor Vehicle Agency, I was handed a lengthy form to fill out. I completed what I felt to be pertinent like my name and address, VIN number and other vital statistics. I handed it to the official and after a quick glance, he gave the form back saying, "The form must be filled out in its entirety! You left out several lines."

Dutifully, I filled out the form in detail, giving my birthplace, date of birth, citizenship, academic degree, title and religious affiliation. Under "occupation", I was uncertain about what to write. If I wrote "missionary", he would assume that I lived and worked in Africa or some other exotic land. In the minds of Austrians, missionaries only go to heathen lands and that would certainly eliminate Austria! If I wrote "carpenter" or any other profession into the blank, I would be required to give the name and address of my employer and tax number. I finally wrote "migrant laborer" in the blank and got back in line.

The official first took issue with my religious affiliation. "What is a Papstist?", he asked. Do you mean Catholic?" The German word for Pope is "Papst" and "Papstist" means follower of the Pope. I explained that there are creatures called Baptists and that he could look in the phone book if he didn't believe me.

When he came to "occupation", he nearly exploded. "Who ever heard of a migrant laborer from America!" I explained that I had learned the carpenter trade but Austrian law prevented me from giving this as my occupation because I had not learned it in Austria. I then told him that I was a youth leader in the Baptist Church. He crossed out "migrant laborer" and wrote "Papstist Jungendleiter" (Papal Youth Leader!) into the blank.

1960 VW Micro Bus and 1967 Opel Kadett (I repainted both)


When my parents came to visit us in 1971, they wanted to rent a car, but I offered them our Mazda instead. I said that if they would send me $300 in advance, I would buy an older vehicle to use while they traveled around Europe. I bought a 1960 VW bus. After they returned to America, I painted it and sold it for a nice profit.

In 1972, the youth who had the VW bus sold it and purchased cars, so we traded our Mazda for an almost new 1971 VW bus. Just before our furlough in 1973, we were able to sell it again for a good price and took an older Opel Kadett station wagon in trade. I painted it copper bronze and sold it before leaving for our furlough.


Furlough cars have been both a source of joy and pain, but in every case they provide memories! In our thirty eight years of missionary work, we have had many experiences with furlough cars.

We once met a single missionary from Spain who was complaining about her furlough car. She lamented, "I just can't understand it! I bought the car from a pastor for whom I have much respect. He told me that he had never, ever had any problems with this car and was selling it only because the Lord had miraculously provided him another vehicle. I have had nothing but problems with this car!"

Without much thought, I mentioned that the Lord must have had good reasons for the pastor to get another car! I knew right away that it was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late.


In 1973, we left for another furlough in America. My brother Dave offered to find us a good station wagon and even bought it for us to use without charge. It was a 1968 Ford LTD with room for ten passengers. We drove the car to California and back with only one minor problem. The air conditioning quit in Utah, so we crossed the salt desert at night and slept during the day. We got it fixed in California.


That was the only furlough we ever took that lasted a whole year; it was a good furlough in every respect. We were able to purchase printing equipment for the print shop and we even had enough money to purchase a new car. Our Ford Pinto station wagon cost only $2,782 in December, 1973. We also bought a second-hand pop-up camping trailer for $125.

Travel by air had become less expensive than by ship, but with so much to take back, we opted for the latter. I built shipping crates for the printing equipment and our personal belongings which would fit in the camping trailer. By taking the car and trailer, we would save money that normally would be spent on ground transportation from the port to Austria.

We drove our Pinto pulling the trailer to New York City, where we boarded the S.S. France. This was to be its final Atlantic crossing before being sold to Norway. We stood on the deck of the ship watching dock workers load containers, crates, cars, boats and campers into the hold of the largest passenger liner afloat. After fifteen minutes, we still hadn't seen our car, so I asked a lady standing next to us if she had seen them load a metallic bronze station wagon. "Oh no!" she responded, "Was that your car?" She then told us that a cable had snapped during loading and the car fell four decks down to the bottom of the ship! It was totally demolished! Our heats sank. "Are you sure it was a metallic bronze-colored station wagon -- was it a Ford Pinto?" She said that she didn't know what make the car was, but it was definitely a metallic bronze station wagon!

I ran down to the purser's office and tried to get information, but there had been no report of a damaged car. It wasn't until we were several hours out to sea that we received word on the car. The wrecked car was indeed a bronze station wagon; but it was an American Motors "Ambassador," registered in Canada. Our car was not damaged. When we arrived in France, we saw the wrecked vehicle on the pier. We also watched a dock worker drive another luxury car over a large wooden block. The car got jammed and would move neither forward nor backward. The worker kept gunning the motor in an attempt to free the car until the automatic transmission housing was punctured and oil gushed out onto the pier. We thanked the Lord for His protection.


After returning to Austria, we drove our car with the New Jersey plates for three months. That was quite an experience! Soon after our arrival, a fellow missionary accompanied me to visit a lady from the church. I parked the car in a parking spot that was limited to 90 minutes. There are no parking meters in Austria, but one must have a cardboard or plastic clock visible through the windshield, which can be set showing the time of arrival. If a policeman sees that the hour-and-a-half time limit has expired or that the clock had been set wrong (some try cheating by setting it for a later time), the owner receives a ticket. I had not gotten one of those clocks yet, but since we were only stopping for a minute or two, I didn't worry about it.

When we returned to the car, a policeman had just placed a ticket under the windshield wiper. While the officer watched from across the street, I took the ticket, studied it for a minute, and then asked my fellow worker in English if he knew what it said. He just shrugged. I speared the ticket onto the radio antenna and drove away. I wonder if he sent the ticket to "Garden State NJ" to collect the $2 fine!

We visited the Austrian equivalent of a county fair, but every parking space within a mile of the fair grounds was filled. There were a few open spaces right next to the entrance, but a sign declared that those spaces were reserved for VIPs, mainly politicians. A policeman was standing there to make certain that no one else used them. I drove right into one of the empty spots and greeted the policeman with a friendly "Good morning, sir!" He smiled back and wished me a good day. After several hours, we returned to find the friendly policeman still guarding our car. As I unlocked the door, we again exchanged friendly smiles and greetings - in English of course!

The city of Linz was in the midst of several ambitious building projects and planning even more. Because these cost a lot of tax money, there are critics who argue about the necessity of such expenditures. City officials decided to display models of future projects and invite the public to view them, ask questions and express their opinions. The date they chose was a Sunday, and I was to be in Steyr all day. I really wanted to see the exhibit and decided that if we arrived when it opened, we could still get to church on time. I drove up to the main entrance in our Ford Pinto with its American license plates. Several Mercedes and BMW limousines were already parked at the curb and a group of distinguished gentlemen stood near them, chatting and puffing on cigars. I got out and opened the door for Verna and our three children. All of us were dressed in our Sunday attire and I realized that we had become the focal point of attention as we marched into the building. An important looking man greeted us and gave us a royal tour of the displays, sharing details and asking if we had any questions. Looking at my watch, I said that we really didn't have much time and that I was most interested in the traffic projects planned for the city. He graciously obliged and began elaborating on the necessity, cost and other details of a projected 4-lane highway and cloverleaf. I was enjoying all this attention and after a brief examination of the cloverleaf, I asked if bicycles would be allowed and if so, where would they ride without causing congestion or getting killed. He studied the model and then looked at the plans on paper. With an embarrassed expression on his face, he admitted that this aspect had apparently not been considered. He hastily thanked me for my insight and added that he would make careful note of this for the engineers. We returned to the car, curious eyes following us all the way. I knew what they were asking each other: "Who on earth were those people?" Whenever I drive on that cloverleaf and see the bicycle path, I am reminded of that Sunday!

Not every experience we had was enjoyable. Verna and I drove into the city one hot day to do some errands. While Verna waited in the car, I ran into a store to get something. A man of about fifty walked by, stopped, looked at the license tags and muttered, "USA - [expletive deleted]!" Then he took a few steps backward and spit in Verna's face through the open car window!


I had three months to get the car changed over to Austrian tags and registration. I had done my homework well, paying close attention to requirements of the law for importing a vehicle. Before driving to the customs office, I carefully arranged the documents and translations in my briefcase.

When it was my turn, I greeted the official by his proper title and explained my errand briefly. I said that I realized this was a very complicated process and I was very likely missing some piece of paper, stamp or permit. Then I laid one document after another on his desk, quoting the laws, rulings and stipulations pertaining to that particular item. When everything was lying in order, I again apologized that I was not experienced at this sort of thing and asked him to let me know if something was missing. He was obviously not accustomed to that kind of efficiency and studied everything carefully. Finally, he said that all was in order and stamped "duty free" on the title.

The next step was getting the car through inspection. An official in the office ascertained that all my papers were in order and sent me to an inspection station, where the car was examined in detail. I had already changed the headlights and taillights to conform to Austrian standards. Turning lights must be amber, so I painted the inside of the backup light lenses with special paint and wired them accordingly. I still needed a back-up light, but not two of them. I mounted an accessory light on the bumper to fulfill that purpose.

A mechanic got in the car to start it, but nothing happened when he turned the key. I explained that he needed to hook up the seat belt before it would start. He muttered something under his breath and obliged. When he unbelted himself with the motor running, a buzzer sounded and he wanted to know what that was. He shook his head in disbelief when I told him how safety-conscious Americans were. I explained that the massive bumpers would withstand an impact of 10 mph. The mechanic then shoved a tube up the exhaust pipe to check emissions. The gauge of his machine didn't move. He pressed down on the gas, but the needle barely moved. He cursed and gave the machine a kick with his foot. I had to explain that Americans were also quite concerned about the environment. This car had many pollution controls! Today, Europeans think that the Americans are not careful enough about such things.

Once the car passed inspection, I headed home, elated that everything had gone so well. It was only noon, but the Motor Vehicle Agency is only open in the mornings. I would have to wait until the following day to get the tags and registration.

I was one of the first in line at the Motor Vehicle Agency. When I got to the window, I placed my pile of documents on the counter and explained what I was after in as friendly a tone as possible. The inspector leafed through the papers carefully. Finally satisfied that everything was in order, he pulled out a pair of tags and started to type. I realized that he was about to give me temporary tags, which are normally only given to migrant laborers. Recalling what a representative of the same agency had told me before about migrant workers, I said, "Excuse me Sir, but I am an American and live permanently in Austria. I have always been issued regular Austrian plates." Perhaps he had a spat with his spouse that morning, or maybe his superior had criticized his work. He replied gruffly, "You are a foreigner! You get temporary tags!"

I knew what this would mean. I would be stopped repeatedly by the police to see if my papers were in order. The tags cost nearly double and had to be renewed each year. I attempted again to convince the agent, "If you check my file Sir, you will see that my last car had regular tags. I have lived here for many years." He was not about to change his mind and let me know this in no uncertain terms. Having no other recourse, I said nothing more and accepted the tags.

As already mentioned, we also brought a pop-up tent camper back with us. Because we hadn't owned it six months before entering Austria, I knew that we would have to pay import duty. The trailer was twelve years old and only cost $125 dollars, so I wasn't too concerned about that. I went through the same process with the trailer as with the car. The customs officer recognized me right away and took care of the matter in short order. Looking in a big book, he noted the distance between America and Austria, multiplying this by a sum of Austrian money. Then he calculated the exchange rate for what I paid for the trailer and added this to the figure. I wound up paying $200, but didn't complain. We had saved much more than that on shipping and transportation costs.

At the inspection station, the same man who checked the Pinto, took care of the trailer. I had changed the lights but he said that I would have to remove the four support jacks from the corners of the trailer. No sharp edges were allowed in Austria! I got out my tools and unbolted the scissor jacks. While I was doing so, the inspector said, "You can remount them when you get home. No one is going to check up on you!"

The following day I was at the Motor Vehicle Agency again. The man at the counter took one look at my papers and asked for my car registration - the one he had just issued two days earlier. He glanced at the document and said with a harsh tone, "I can't issue you tags for the trailer." I wanted to know what papers were missing. He said that nothing was missing. Austrian law requires that a trailer have the same type of tags as the vehicle towing it, but there are no temporary tags for trailers. I argued, "But I paid duty on it and paid to get it inspected." He assured me that there was nothing he could do. I hesitated and then asked hopefully, "Could you give me regular tags for both vehicles?" With a note of finality in his voice, he let me know that no amount of argumentation would be of any benefit.

I checked with the Austrian Touring Club and a lawyer, but they said there was nothing I could do unless the official changed his mind. I knew what they meant. If I bribed him, he would likely change his mind. Christian friends had told me that this was sometimes a "necessary evil" in Austria. I have spoken with missionaries from third world countries who have to pay bribes for just about every service including mail delivery! The missionaries there consider it "tipping" because officials receive very little pay for exactly this reason. The idea of bribing a well-paid Austrian public official, however, was repulsive and I was determined not to stoop that low.

When summer arrived, we wanted to use the trailer for our vacation, so I returned to the Motor Vehicle Agency and courteously requested regular tags for the car and trailer. The agent recognized me and remained adamant, saying he couldn't give me the tags. I was prepared for his response and argued that he had issued regular tags to other foreigners living in Linz. Why did he give them preference over me? He answered, "The gods were with them!" I replied, "I don't believe in gods; I believe in God and He is going to help me get regular tags." At this remark, he stared at me with a quizzical look and said, "And how do you expect to accomplish that?" I pulled a list of names and addresses out of my briefcase (important Austrians always carry these). I said, "All the people on this list are foreigners like me, but you have issued them regular plates. Some of them have doctorates and others are high ranking officials in the local industries. Either I get regular license plates or these persons will have to relinquish theirs and get temporary tags! I am prepared to take this case to court."

The agent looked briefly at my list and saw that I was not bluffing. He said, "Just a moment while I make a phone call." I was familiar with that trick and knew I had won! He picked up the phone and talked briefly with a fictitious person on the other end of the line. After hanging up, he returned and said that he had received permission to make an exception in my case.

Months later, I accompanied Verna to the same office to pick up her driver's license. We had to walk by the window of that agent and he spotted me from a distance. He said, "Good morning, Mr. Harvey, is there anything I can do for you today?"

1976 Ford Taunus

We were able to import our Ford Pinto duty free but were not allowed to sell it for two years after registering it. The Pinto was only a four passenger vehicle and our children kept growing. Soon we faced a battle every time we took our children on a longer trip. Becky was not happy about always having to sit in the middle. "I don't want to sit on the hump again!", she would complain. Taking turns was not a solution, for the boys were both so tall that they blocked the rear view mirror. We anxiously awaited November 1, 1976, the day when we could sell our Pinto without paying the duty.

In October, I started scouring the newspapers for a five passenger station wagon. Having already owned at least forty Fords, this was of course my preference. Near the end of the month, on a Monday morning, I saw a classified ad for a German Ford Taunus station wagon. According to the ad, it was a 1976 model, but the price listed was only half the new price. I assumed that there was either a printing error or that it had been damaged. I called the number given and reached a BMW/Simca dealership. The car was indeed a 1976 model and had not been in an accident. It was ten months old with 10,000 kilometers (6,000 miles) and was still under the new-car warranty! The price given in the newspaper was also correct.

I said that I would be right over to look at the car, but the dealer told me that I would have to wait. He had taken the Ford in trade but the present owner was still driving it until his new car was ready for delivery. The car would not come in until Tuesday evening. He said that if I came by on Wednesday morning, they would have the car cleaned and ready to test drive.

I told Verna and we immediately made this a matter of prayer. We had no money and no prospective buyer for our Pinto. It was doubtful that the dealer would accept an American car in trade.

Tuesday was a rainy day and I had to do some errands in town. It was about 4:00 PM when I was finished and I decided to make a detour to the BMW agency about fifteen miles away. As I drove, I spotted a Ford station wagon several cars ahead of me which matched the description of the one advertised. Sure enough, the driver turned into the dealership and I stopped behind him. I politely asked the driver if he was trading the car in and when he replied affirmatively, I asked if there was anything wrong with the car. He said "no". A salesman approached and led him to his new car. After a few minutes, he returned to take the tags off the Ford. When he saw me looking it over, he asked if was interested.

After a short drive, the salesman said that if I wanted the car, I could sign the papers immediately. I replied that I had no money with me, but he said it didn't matter; I could pay for the vehicle when I picked it up, even if it took a couple of weeks. I of course signed on the dotted line. I probably never bought a car as fast as that one!

When I got home, I told Verna that I had seen the car and that it was everything the ad had promised. She was excited and asked if I thought there was any chance of us getting the car. I tried to look dejected and replied, "The car is already sold." She looked very dissapointed, so I quickly added, "...to us!" I pulled out the sales contract and showed it to her. "The salesman said we don't have to pay for it until we pick it up."

A member of the Baptist Church in Linz had recently purchased a car just like this one, except for the color. I called him and told him about my lucky find. He responded in unbelief at first, but when I assured him that I was not joking, he asked, "Did you read the small print on the back of the contract?" He continued, "If no down payment is involved, the dealer often reserves the right to sell the car to another paying customer." I quickly examined the contract and found the mentioned clause. When I told him, he surprised me by saying, "Come to my house first thing tomorrow. I will stop by the bank and get the money so you can pay for it before someone else gets it. That way, you can take your time and try to get the best price for your old car."

The following morning, I picked up the money and drove to the dealership. The dealer's wife met me and when I explained my business, she said, "You know you got a good deal, don't you?" I nodded with a smile. She then told me that after I left, at least ten prospective customers came to buy the car. One was so angry when he heard that it was sold, that he put large posters on the sides of his car and picketed the agency for unfair business practices! He was convinced that the ad was designed to entice people in. She said that her husband got out his "blue book" and almost fell over when he saw how cheaply he had sold the car. After the paper work was completed and the title was in my hand, I mentioned the small print on the back of the sales contract, saying that I was afraid they would sell it to someone else. She replied that they would never do such a thing... but then added, "If you had not come by this morning, we might have been tempted!"

I polished our '73 Pinto and parked it along a busy highway near our home with a sign in the window. We soon sold it for enough to completely pay for our 1976 Taunus Station Wagon! After some quick calculation, I realized that we actually made profit of $1,200 over the new price three years and 60,000 miles later!


The story of how we got the van for our 1976 summer team is worth mentioning here. We owned a total of eight VW vans during our nearly four decades of missionary work. At the time, I considered myself to be an expert on these vehicles. I had replaced and rebuilt the engines, done welding on rusted frames and knew about all their mysterious quirks. For this reason, I was not too concerned about finding the right bus.

About two months before the team was to arrive, I saw an ad in the paper for a 9-passenger VW bus. I called the number given and asked "intelligent" questions. The seller should know that I was an expert when it came to VW vans. The price was reasonable and it was a 1967 model, my favorite. That was the last year Volkswagen produced the older style body, but it had a 12-volt battery. The older vans had less weight for the tiny boxer motors to push around. The owner said that the vehicle only needed paint. I had painted many cars, so this was no hindrance and would allow me to choose my favorite color (wine red).

About that time, Verna asked me if I would go to the store to buy bread and milk for the weekend. In Austria, stores close at noon on Saturday until don't reopen until Monday morning. After leaving the house, I decided to check out the VW bus. It was sitting in a gas station not too far from our home. The engine started immediately and because there were no tags on it, I just drove the van around the gas pumps a couple of times. There were a few scratches and small dents, but nothing that couldn't be easily fixed with fiberglass putty and elbow grease. It seemed to be a good buy, so after getting the owner down on the price, I signed the papers and gave him the money. When I arrived home, I proudly announced my acquisition to Verna, elaborating on all the technical details to a woman who couldn't have cared less. When I paused, she asked, "Where is the milk and bread?" I had forgotten, and now the stores were closed!

A closer investigation of my prize bus revealed that it had no reverse gear. The battery was no good but the owner had apparently given it a fresh charge before I arrived. The generator didn't work either, but the indicator light had been disconnected so I wouldn't notice. When I discovered that the heat exchangers were rusted through, the fate of that van was sealed. Leaky exchangers can be deadly, pumping lethal exhaust gas into the interior of the vehicle. And they cost $300 to replace. Verna graciously helped me tow the bus to a junk yard.

My ego was badly deflated, but I learned a valuable lesson. There were people out there who knew more about selling than I knew about buying! I also learned to trust prayer more than my own expertise. That occurrence has since become a family joke. Every once in a while Verna or one of the children would say, "Never send Dad to the store for milk and bread! He will return with an old car!"


Before the team arrived, our co-workers, Rudy and Linda Meier left for a year of furlough in America. They asked me to sell their car for them and keep the money to purchase another car when they returned. As an afterthought, Rudy added, "You can buy a van for the team with the money."

A few hours after I sold their car, a pastor called to ask for my "expert" assistance. The church had decided to get rid of their Volkswagen bus and buy an economical station wagon. Could I please help them find a buyer? The church sold us the van for exactly what we got for Meier's car and when the campaign was over, we got the entire purchase price back! Incidentally, the van was my favorite wine red color!


Verna's brother got married on July 4th, 1964, two weeks before our first departure for Austria. We had already sold our 1950 Oldsmobile and were wondering how we could get to the wedding. A member of the church offered to loan us his brand new Mercury Comet for the 800 mile round trip. We liked the car so much, that Verna said, "I hope we can get a car like this for our furlough some day." That is exactly what happened thirteen years later! In 1977 we bought a Mercury identical except for the color. Our 1964 Comet served us well and we even got the purchase price back when it was sold.


By 1981, we had driven our red '76 Taunus nearly 300,000 kilometers and decided that it was time to look for another station wagon before it fell apart. We found an almost new blue station wagon with 6,000 miles on. There had been a fire in the motor department which burned much of the wiring and paint off the front. The owner was given a new vehicle and this one was fixed up and sold to us for 40% under the new price. The car served us well until 1985.


Although the Lord has always provided exactly the right car for each furlough, we once mentioned this need as a prayer request in our newsletter. We were offered a one-owner Chevrolet Impala with low mileage, which had been owned by a little old lady, who never drove it over 50 mph!

Only once had I heard that claim made of an automobile. It was back in 1956 and the car was a pink and white 1955 Ford Convertible with Douglas glasspack mufflers, three carburetors and a continental tire kit. There was a logical explanation of course. The little old lady was the legal owner, but her nephew was the principle driver! That Ford was just what I had been dreaming of, but I couldn't afford the price they were asking.

The little old lady who had owned the Chevy was my own aunt who had recently passed away! I was a Ford fan and never liked Chevys, but as the old expression goes, "You don't look a gift horse in the mouth." I felt that this was one deal I couldn't afford to pass up.

When I picked up the car at my sister's house, it was splattered with fresh mud even though it had not been registered for a year. I should have become suspicious, but the engine started and ran smoothly. The transmission shifted fine, but all four tires were well-worn. I bought new tires and registered the car immediately. In order to get the car through inspection, I spent two days working on the wiring, which included removal of the dashboard. The first time it rained, I found water on the floor due to a leaky windshield and in the trunk where the rear window leaked. I fixed the leaks with rubber cement, but the trunk floor was badly rusted. When I tossed our suitcases into the trunk for our first trip to visit Verna's parents, the floor dropped onto the axle and tailpipe. I found a piece of heavy sheet aluminum and pop-riveted a new floor into the trunk. Our problems had just begun, however.

After spending Thanksgiving with Verna's parents in Meadville, Pennsylvania, we set out Sunday morning on the eight-hour return trip to New Jersey. before we reached Oil City, it started to rain. I turned on the wipers, but they quit working within five minutes. I stopped to see what was wrong and discovered that they had become disconnected from the shaft of the wiper motor. A nut had been loose so long that the threads were worn smooth. I pushed the arm back on and tightened the nut as best I could. The wipers worked for three more wipes and I had to repeat this task. After doing this several times, it became obvious that we could not stop every mile of our 400-mile journey.

I stopped in three service stations, looking for a mechanic on duty, but no mechanics worked on Sunday. I finally found a friendly pump attendant who agreed to let me to use his tools to fix the car myself. His garage was well-equipped and after re-threading the shaft, I screwed the nut back on. Wanting to be certain that the nut didn't loosen, I gave it an extra turn and snapped off the entire shaft! No dealerships or junk yards are open on Sundays in that part of Pennsylvania. If we had not had tickets for a Monday morning flight to Kansas City, we would have looked for a motel.

We decided to continue our journey without windshield wipers. The Lord would be with us! I drove slowly, wiping off as much rain as possible with my left arm. The heater fan didn't work and with temperatures near freezing, we were all praying that the Lord would cause the rain to stop. It did stop -- and started to sleet! Now I had to stop every mile or two to scrape ice.

With three hundred miles to go, we found ourselves in a traffic jam. The roads had turned to sheet ice and nothing was moving. Not even the salt trucks were able to get through! We were on a divided highway and several cars began to drive on the icy grass median, so we followed suit. Soon, hundreds of cars were driving down the center and the regular traffic lanes were virtually empty! I still kick myself for not taking a picture of that scene!

By the time we reached Harrisburg, we had been traveling over ten hours. The ice storm was over, but darkness had set in and it was still raining hard. My eyes were hurting so much that tears streamed down my face. Approaching the Delaware Memorial Twin Bridges, I wiped my eyes with my handkerchief and discovered to my horror, that it had turned red! Somehow, I managed to keep driving until we reached our home in Elmer. It was nearly midnight and I was never so happy to get to bed as I was that night.

Early the next morning, we left the kids with my parents and flew from Philadelphia to Kansas City. Everyone stared at me, but they were too polite to ask why my eyes were so red. I think I slept the entire trip.


1973 Ford LTD

When we reached our mission headquarters in Kansas City, I went directly to the treasurer and asked if it was possible to borrow money for a car. He smiled and answered that we might not need a loan. He had just received a check from the United States Treasury Department for Ralph and Verna Harvey. It was made out for about $750!

In 1982, the IRS had "picked our name out of a hat" (according to the agent) for an audit of our 1981 income tax return. At the time, we were very upset about this. American citizens living outside of the country were allowed to earn $80,000 per year tax free and our income was below poverty level. We were required to produce receipts pertaining to our rent and utilities and even had to give silly information such as the exact dates when our children went off to boarding school in Germany. None of this was even remotely related to taxation.

According to the letter accompanying our check, the IRS discovered that we had paid too much Social Security in 1981. They were returning the overpaid amount plus interest!

After returning to Elmer, I began immediately to look for a good station wagon for $750. This time it had to be a Ford! My first stop was at the Ford dealership only a block away from where we lived. The dealer was a Christian and we had purchased cars from him before. He had a nice yellow 1977 LTD wagon for only $1,500, but that was twice what we had available. I traveled all over South Jersey and Philadelphia looking at cars, but found nothing suitable in our price range. In fact, the best deal I had found all day, was that yellow LTD back in Elmer!

Late that evening, I returned to Elmer, dejected that we still hadn't found a car. As I drove past the Ford dealership, I stopped again to look at the yellow station wagon, thinking we could possibly borrow money to buy it. Behind the dealership I saw another green LTD wagon without tags. Curious, I asked the dealer about the car. He said that they had just taken it in trade. It was an older '73 model, but in good condition except for the tires. The dealer said that we could have the car "as is" for $700!

While a salesman mounted tags for a test drive, I looked over the car. It had less than half as many miles on it as the yellow car! The tires looked like new, but when we went for a drive, it began to leap like a kangaroo at ten miles per hour! The dealer explained that the tires contained a substance that sealed small punctures. Normally you don't even need to balance them. The car had been purchased to pull a large camper to Florida, but the owners had a small car that they used for most travel. The station wagon had been parked a long time in a hot Florida garage and the sticky stuff in the tires had settled at the bottom. There was no way to make it spread evenly again.

I signed the necessary papers and went to see Fritz Harz, the tire dealer where I had purchased tires for the Chevy. He was a fine Christian and had supported our ministry from the very outset. I explained my situation and asked if it would be possible to use the Chevy tires on the Ford LTD. He looked in a book and replied, "The tires would fit, but we will have to remount them on the Ford rims and balance them". After a pause, he added, "according to this chart, the only Chevy rims that fit a Ford are the 1971 model." That was exactly what we had!

That 10-passenger LTD station wagon had every conceivable extra including the most powerful engine Ford ever installed in a car. Nine months later, we sold it for $300 more than we paid for it!


1985 Ford Sierra

In April, 1985, we set out for the Black Forest Academy to return our kids after the Easter break. Our blue station wagon had accumulated many miles, the windshield had a big crack and the shocks were bad, but it still ran great. We had only driven ten miles when unusual noises developed. We stopped at a Ford dealership to get it checked out. The mechanic told us that there was a bad bearing in the transmission and it would only hold out about 100 kilometers. There was no time to get it repaired and we had no money, so we began to discuss our options. The dealer came over and after looking over the car, he said, "You would be best off buying a new one!" I agreed heartily, but said that we couldn't afford it. He checked his book and then said, I will give you 45,000 Shillings in trade. That was equivalent to around $2,000, but we were still not convinced. Then Verna started to calculate and said, "Have you considered the exchange rate for the Dollar?

After Ronald Reagan was elected President of the United States, the exchange rate for the US Dollar began to climb steadily. After several years of devaluations, this was a refreshing development! I quickly figured that with the generous trade-in allowance, we would only have to pay $5,500 for a brand new station wagon. Immediate repairs needed for the old car would cost about $1000 and it had 240,000 kilometers on it. With the improved exchange rate, we would be able to make payments.

We had a prayer meeting in the car and decided to sign. It would be a couple of weeks before the new car could be delivered, so we got back into the car to continue our 8-hour journey. The mechanic said, you are NOT going to travel that far with a bad transmission, are you? I replied that we had no other choice. Besides, I belonged to the Touring Club and if the car broke down outside Austria, we could get free towing and a rental car. He just shook his head and said, "Good luck!"

We drove 8 hours there and another 8 hours back home again. The transmission was much noisier, but it kept going for two more weeks until our new car was delivered!


We had many great and unusual experiences with our cars and our '85 Sierra was no exception. Our daughter still laughs about the time I drove off a roof, but she was pretty scared at the time. The roof was actually a parking lot and in turning, I backed up too far. One rear wheel was left hanging in the air and since the car had rear wheel drive, that meant we were going nowhere fast. Another friendly motorist attached a rope and pulled the car back onto the roof.

We were in Prague, Czechoslovakia in 1990, soon after the Iron Curtain collapsed to make preparations for the arrival of new missionaries. While there, thieves smashed our car window in an attempt to steal the radio. Fortunately, they couldn't figure out how to unlock the doors and gave up.

We made a few visits with Czech pastors and one of them said that a thief had recently ruined the windshields of five Skodas which belonged to pastors attending a conference. Four windshields were shattered when the thief attempted to remove them, but he was apparently successful on the fifth try. His own windshield had probably been stolen or damaged and he was just "shopping" for a replacement. The Czech pastor said that you could wait months to get a windshield from a dealer.

The day after our return from Prague, I picked up a Romanian Pastor at the train station, who wanted to visit Christian friends in Austria. I said that I needed to drive to Salzburg to get a window replaced and he seemed delighted at the prospect of seeing this city, which he heard so much about. Once on the Autobahn, I noticed that the Romanian pastor seemed very tense. He clutched his seat with both hands, apparently expecting the car to take flight or blow up! I was driving below the 75 mph speed limit and most cars were passing me. He explained that he had never traveled that fast in his life. In Salzburg, I drove to the Ford agency and walked up to the parts window. I explained to the man that I needed a left-rear-side-window for a 1985 Ford Sierra station wagon. He asked if it was tinted and what shade of tint. After looking up the part on the micro-film machine, he read the part number into a microphone. Within seconds, a young man showed up with the glass, wrapped in brown cardboard. The clerk typed the price into a computer which spit out the receipt. I then pushed my bank card into an automat and typed in my code number to pay for the part.

The Romanian acted like he had been resurrected from the dead a century after his death! He shared his impressions with me in broken German. In Romania, the roads were so full of pot holes, that even a fast western car could not drive more than 20 or 30 mph. The new cars in the Ford dealership were breathtaking, but what really fascinated him was how I got the exact window I needed in a matter of seconds - and I didn't even open the package to make sure it was the right part! Paying for something with a plastic card was also unheard of!


After opening the Austrian Bible Institute in 1984, it soon became apparent that we would need a bus. One of the teachers said that his father had an older bus which had been used on his farm. There were few kilometers on it and although it had windows, there were no seats except in front. With all my experience, this posed no great problem. I bought the bus for $250 and found another with a bad engine for $50. A friend in America had given me two gallons of bright red airplane paint, which Verna carried across the ocean as "carry on" luggage! Before installing the seats and headliner, I painted the bus inside and out.


I always preferred Fords, but we did have one really nice Chevrolet. In 1987, we arrived in America and went directly to the Ford dealership in Elmer. After examining all the Fords and finding nothing suitable in our price range, I reluctantly checked out a 1976 Chevrolet Caprice. It was a real creampuff of a car that had obviously enjoyed TLC. A test drive showed no problems, so we bought the car for $1000. We drove it many thousands of miles with only one slight problem. After parking the car on a hot day, pressure built up in the radiator and burst a water hose. We later sold the car for $1000, just what we paid for it.

1976 Chevrolet Caprice


Eight years later, we were again on furlough. Fritz and Joan Harz offered to let us live in an empty house he owned and we happily accepted the offer. A Rolls Royce Silver Shadow was parked behind the house and I asked if it belonged to them. Fritz responded by handing me the keys and saying, "Feel free to use it for your deputation travels!"

Rolls Royce Silver Shadow or 1981 Chevrolet Citation?

Needless to say, we declined their generous offer. How would supporters and potential donors react? I did want to take a ride in the plush vehicle, however. I tried to start the Rolls one day, but the battery was dead. I looked for the battery but couldn't figure out how to get under the "bonnet". I finally resorted to the owner's manual in the glove compartment, which looked more like a luxuriously bound family Bible. The book gave instructions on how to open the "boot" but not the "bonnet" and there was no mention of a battery, so I gave up. I was later told that the Rolls Royce doesn't have mechanical problems, and if it does, the owner has no business trying to solve them.

Since we only planned to be in America three months, we rented a car from an agency that serves only missionaries. It was a Chevrolet and within two weeks the transmission quit. We gave the car back and went to the local Ford dealership to look for a dependable car. There was only one car in our price range that seemed okay -- another Chevrolet. We bought the car and in less than a month, that transmission failed! Two transmissions within a month was a difficult pill to swallow, but rather than risk a third, we had the transmission rebuilt to the tune of $600. Then the power steering failed! That would have cost another $600 to fix, so we decided to drive without this luxury.

After Rick finished college, he planned to return to Austria as a missionary. He would need a car for deputation, so we gave him our "Citation" for his graduation present. When he left for Austria the following year, the car was parked next to my parent's garage. We planned to repair the steering and use it for our next furlough, but that was not to be.


Our next trip to America was in December, 1991. Pop Harvey said that we should not bother to get the Citation fixed. We could use his nice Toyota Camry instead. His doctor had told him that he was not allowed to drive. We gladly accepted the offer.

In January, Pop became ill and we thought he was going to die. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital, but was home again in a few hours. The doctors said that he just had the flu. He was so weak that he couldn't stand, so I had to carry him into the shower to bathe him. It was a painful experience for my father and wasn't easy for me either.

On February 11, we were in Meadville, PA to speak in Verna's home church. Just before the service, my brother Dave called. He said that there had been a fire in the workshop at Daretown. Pop Harvey had attempted to put it out and was overcome by smoke. He was now in heaven. Early the following morning we headed for New Jersey. The fire had completely demolished the shop and our Citation was also burned out. We were of course saddened by the death of Pop Harvey, but even in this tragedy, we experienced God's provision. The insurance company paid us the book value for our old Chevy because it was "in storage". With the defective power steering, this was far more than we could ever have gotten for the car. The Camry, which we had been driving would not have been insured because it was registered!

A tragic fire


In 1994, the Austrian government began taxing cars heavily if they had no catalytic converter. In addition, owners of such cars would not be allowed to drive on days when there was a smog warning. Some major cities even considered banning vehicles without a "cat" within the city limits. Our car was one of the last to be manufactured without this feature and we had driven it over 260,000 kilometers in nine years. We really liked the car and although it never gave us any trouble, the handwriting was on the wall. It was time for a change.

We had requested our mission to set aside money from our account for car replacement. We accumulated $10,000 in nine years time, but the Dollar had been devalued considerably since 1985. Prices for new cars had also doubled, so we only had enough for a used station wagon. We finally located a two year-old Ford with an economical 1,8 liter diesel engine and only 20,000 miles on the tachometer. Diesel fuel cost only $2.39/gallon as opposed to $3.47 for gasoline back then. Because the car also got better mileage, we calculated that we would save more than a third on fuel costs.

When the money was transferred to our account, service charges and Social Security deductions to the tune of $1,500 were subtracted. We had not considered these costs and had to borrow money from the bank to close the deal.

Almost immediately, however, we began to have serious doubts about our acquisition. The US Dollar took another big plunge on the foreign exchange. Our freezer quit and in order to save our frozen meats and vegetables, we had to buy a new one. We were still trying to recover from the expenses of our daughter's wedding when Richard got married. In Austria, parents of the groom are expected to share wedding costs. We had pledged to support an Albanian student in the Austrian Bible Institute andexpenses with the church ministry in Frankenburg were higher than expected. Instead of paying off the bank loan, we had to borrow more money until we owed more than $4500!


We decided to sell the car in order to get out of debt. We got $2500 less than we paid for it only six months earlier and bought an older Ford station wagon with lots of miles on it. It at least had a catalytic converter! From the very beginning, however, we had trouble with the car. Austrians call such vehicles "Monday cars."

I had owned a total of 41 Fords, but only this one gave us trouble! A mystery problem developed soon after we purchased it. While driving, the engine would simply cut out for apparently no reason whatsoever. I took the car to three different Ford dealers a total of six times. Each time they did something, but the problem persisted. Of course, I had to pay the bill, because our car "needed" whatever they did.

One garage said it was the electric fuel pump and they removed the gas tank in order to replace it. When I got home, I noticed gasoline leaking onto the asphalt parking lot. Not willing to risk an explosion, I had a church member tow the car back to the shop. Two days later, I got the car again and drove away, but while waiting for a train, a cyclist informed me that gasoline was again pouring out of the tank! I had the car towed back to the shop a second time! When I returned to pick it up, I was nearly knocked over by the stench of gasoline. The mechanic apologized that my car wasn't finished and said that he had a problem. That was quite obvious! Gasoline from the tank had run all over the floor and the mechanic was standing in the middle of the puddle holding a lighted cigarette in his hand! A missionary should be concerned about lost souls, but I ran out of the shop to save my own and secretly hoped that both car and mechanic would be blown sky high. The tank didn't leak any more after that, but the engine continued to cut out at the most inopportune times.

I took the car to the Touring Club but their experts were no more successful in finding what caused the engine to cut out. After spending more than $2,000 for repairs, I finally found and fixed the problem myself. I twisted a bundle of electric cables in the engine compartment with my hands and the motor ran properly again!

Soon after that victory, a new mystery unfolded. Every once in a while for no apparent reason, the car simply refused to start. It wouldn't even fire, yet when the car was pushed, it started immediately. Once more, I spent a small fortune and much time trying to get the problem solved, but all to no effect. I learned to park it on an incline whenever possible.

In summer, a choir from Canada arrived to help us with special meetings. We had 43 meetings in six weeks all over Austria. I bought a Mitsubishi van for transportation, but we also used our station wagon pulling a trailer for transporting instruments and projection equipment. Fortunately, there were a dozen strong young people to push the car when it wouldn't start. Our singers had to push-start the station wagon about twenty times, and when it was rainy, they got their nice clothes dirty. At the end of their stay, I delivered them to the airport and Verna gave me one last tow job with the van at 11:00 PM - in the pouring rain of course! Two drenched and exhausted people headed for home and a nice warm bed, determined to get rid of that Monday car even if we had to junk it!


I scanned the Saturday papers the next day, looking for a used station wagon with rear wheel drive (see the next section for more on this subject). There was only one rear-wheel drive station wagon listed, so we checked it out. It was a Ford Scorpio with sun roof, power locks and windows, power steering, anti blocking brakes and even a burglar alarm! It was four years old, but had low mileage and the price was right. Best of all, the dealer offered us a the full book value of $3,500 for our old car -- even though it wouldn't start for him either! We said that we wanted to pray about it before making a decision (that always gets raised eyebrows!). On Monday, we collaborated with the car's future co-owners (the bank), explaining that after selling the Mitsubishi van, a keyboard and P.A. system, we would be able to pay for it.

Out of curiosity, I looked through the used car ads on the following weekend and counted 14 ads for Ford station wagons!

1992 Ford Scorpio

Front wheel drive cars: 1983 Dodge Colt Vista, 1984 VW Golf and 1994 Buick Century


I have always preferred cars with rear wheel drive and am convinced that they are better than front wheel drive cars in mountainous terrain. On flat ground in curves, front-wheel drive car has certain advantages, but I still prefer a rear-wheel drive car. Friends tell me that no one but a fool would buy a rear wheel drive car today. They argue that car manufacturers must have good reasons why they no longer produce these "relics of the past". I agree to this wholeheartedly. Car manufacturers and dealers prefer front wheel drive cars. They are cheaper to build because the entire drive train can be installed in one operation. If involved in an accident, front wheel drive cars are more often scrapped, resulting in more car sales. Even hitting a curb or pot hole can provide a tidy little sum of money for the service department.

If only fools prefer cars with rear wheel drive, I am in good company. Two car makers which still manufacture them are Mercedes Benz and BMW.

For die-hard fans of the front wheel drive, here are my arguments for the rear wheel drive car: When driving up hills, some of the car's weight shifts to the rear wheels, which means there is less grip on the front wheels. If a car goes into a skid going down an icy hill, the driver's proper response depends upon which type of vehicle he is driving. To pull a front wheel drive car out of a skid, you step on the gas. With rear wheel drive, you take your foot off the gas and the motor straightens you out. I prefer the latter method.

One of our church members was a mailman who liked to chide me about my preference for rear wheel drive cars. One snowy Sunday, I took a lady home from church and found his car hopelessly stuck on a steep hill. His wife and three kids were pushing, but the car wouldn't budge. I stopped next to his car and suggested that he back down the hill and drive up in reverse. He was skeptical, but tried and made it to the top with no difficulty!

Once, I was driving down a mountain with two other missionary couples as passengers. In a curve, we suddenly came on blank ice from melted snow which covered the entire road. The car went into a skid and our hearts stopped beating as it headed for the edge of the road and an abrupt drop of several hundred feet onto the rocks below. There was no guard rail to stop us. I had the presence of mind to take my foot off the gas and let the engine do the breaking. The car began to straighten out and I was able to steer it onto dry pavement just before reaching the precipice. All of us agreed that we would have been killed if the car had not had rear wheel drive.

Still, we have had several cars with front wheel drive that gave satisfactory service (photos above).


One stormy Sunday, I was taking two elderly ladies home from church when a hundred yards ahead of our car, a large tree fell across the road. Fortunately, I managed to stop the car in time, but the tree was two feet thick and there was no way to get around it. Because the road was heavily traveled, vehicles were soon lined up in both directions.

I got out of the car and contemplated what I should do. As I looked at the cars on the other side of the tree, I recognized the driver of the first car. He was a missionary who was on his way to show slides of his work in the Bible Institute. I crawled under the tree and introduced myself. Then I suggested that we exchange cars. Soon the four passengers in his car and two ladies from my car had traded places. After a U-turn, we continued to our destinations. It was only after seeing the startled look on the faces of people in the other cars that I realized how strange this must have looked to them! Adding to the confusion, our license plates were from different Austrian provinces! I should have rolled down my window and suggested to the driver of the Mercedes behind me, that he follow suit! After all, there were more cars on the other side! Speaking of Mercedes...


Back in 1975, Verna paused in front of a car dealership in Germany where a certain car caught her attention. "That is a nice car, what is it?" she asked. I replied that it was a Mercedes SLC (sports coupe) and added without much thought, "When we retire, I will buy you one of those!"

Twenty-six years passed faster than I anticipated. I never forgot my promise nor did my wife let me forget. Whenever she saw an SLC, she would ask, "Is that my car?" When we retired from service in Austria, she expected me to buy her a model car, but it turned out differently. After much searching and checking on prices, I bid secretly on several Mercedes SLCs on E-Bay. Most of them were not in good condition and sold for too much money, but I was determined to keep my promise. I kept bidding and finally got one in fantastic condition for half its book value!

The car was a 1975 SLC and could be driven with historic tags and car insurance costing only $62 per year - and no inspections required! Best of all, the car would not depreciate, but rather increase in value!

Verna's "oldie" even had an electrically operated sun roof and air conditioning, not so common 29 years ago! The original burgundy-red metallic color really shined! The interior was genuine leather, the body and chassis were solid and the chrome perfect. The previous owners had pampered it for 26 years, driving it only 2000 - 3000 miles per year.

The SLC is a foot longer than the convertible version, has a small rear seat and more room in the trunk. It was originally intended to attract young couples, but after the SLC won several major races, even defeating the Porsches, it grew in popularity. Germans are re-importing the 450 SLs and SLCs because most of them were sold in America and they are worth more in Europe.

Verna only drove it once and decided that she preferred the Roadmaster wagon. We kept the car for a year until after our kids came to visit. We needed a second car during that time. We sold it in November, 2004 for $2000 more that what I paid for it. We poured a cement floor in the garage and driveway with the proceeds, so we can honestly tell people that Verna's car is in the driveway or in the garage. Click here for photos of Verna's Mercedes!


You are probably wondering what we are driving today. After we returned from Europe (supposedly to retire!), we looked around for a station wagon, only to find that American car manufacturers have all but given up on these. Even minivans were out of style. Everyone was driving SUVs! The only station wagons on the road seemed to be foreign made and far too small for our tastes.

In examining newspapers, we found a 1992 Buick Roadmaster station wagon with only 61,000 Florida miles on it. We fell in love with it and have had three more Roadmaster wagons since! Click to see photos of our cars since 2002.


I hope you have enjoyed these car tales. There is much more to tell, but I have to stop somewhere and this is as good a place as any!

And by the way, if you ever hear someone feeling sorry for missionaries, give them a copy of this article. We may have a few hardships, but we also have fun!

You can read more here, Route 40

Ralph V Harvey