"The Bootlegger" lived on the east hill overlooking Lee Creek about 4 blocks from our house. I used to think of him as a dark and sinister figure but I do admit that he provided an essential service; given the fact that the nearest liquor store was 40 miles away.

I would have never come to know The Bootlegger had it not been for my early experiences with Model Ts. One warm summer afternoon I persuaded a good friend to follow me in his dad's 1963 Pontiac Parisianne and clock the top speed I could attain in our 26 T pickup. We headed out on highway 5 north-east of town toward the Silver Bridge. According to my friend I reached a top speed of 55 miles an hour. On the way back the engine developed a pronounced knocking sound. By the time we arrived at our shop the motor was making enough noise that it drew my father out of the parts department to see what the ruckus was all about. For the life of me I don't know why he didn't ground me for the rest of the summer. Instead he simply scowled and said, "Go get The Bootlegger". The Bootlegger was that best Model T mechanic around and during the balance of my teenage years I would hear my father recite the phrase "go get The Bootlegger" a number of times as I pushed the old T beyond its physical limits and broke one part or another.

Robb Wolff