By SUZANNE MOORE
Features Editor
October 08, 2008 04:00 am
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PLATTSBURGH -- This old truck was a real workhorse.
Winters, it plowed snow on the Meseck Road in Mooers Forks; in the spring it hauled gravel to fill potholes.
"Twenty-five cents an hour," laughed Rudolph Mesec. "Shoveled all by hand."
He was just a boy when his father, Henry, bought the two-ton 1937 F5 Ford pickup truck from White Ford in Ellenburg. A demonstration model, it cost $1,000.
Looking at it today, parked in the driveway by Rudolph Mesec Auto Body Shop on George Street in Plattsburgh, is like going back in time. Over five years or so, Rudy has completely reconditioned the vehicle, even slapped on the original license plates: NY 139-770.
He made a lot of the parts himself, for they just weren't available anymore.
The hood, floorboards.
"This here was all rusted out," he swept a gnarled hand along the dash.
Rudy hauled the 100-horsepower engine right out of the truck as he worked on the rest of the vehicle.
"The motor ran good," he said, "but the clutch was bad."
His nephew Stanley "Pepper" Meseck remembers that; as a boy he drew hay with that pickup.
"We used to have to tow it to start it, 'cause the clutch was froze."
ALMOST LOST IT
Rudy knows his stuff.
"I started working on cars when I was 8 years old," he said, chuckling. "We used to rebuild batteries back then."
A family of 11 meant everyone had to pitch in.
On the farm, in the family sawmill.
"We were men at 10 years old back in those days."
But Rudy thrived on hard work. Kinda like the old truck.
During World War II, he worked for D&H Railroad.
"I used to work three days, two nights without sleeping," he remembered.
At one time, he brought home a paycheck from Diamond paper mill, built houses on the side.
In 1960, he opened the shop, where he still puts in a full day at 84.
"He's up early in the morning," put in his son, Roger. "He's out here."
"Never gonna retire," Rudy said.
In '38, the Mesecks (Henry spelled his name with a k') used the pickup to help fight a massive forest fire near Churubusco.
Rudy and his brother Jim filled wooden barrels with river water, loaded them up and drove into the thick of the action in the pickup.
"Almost lost it," Rudy said, remembering the roar of the flames in the trees, the choking smoke. "I stuck my head in a bucket of water, told my bother, Let's get out of here!'"
BELLERIN' MOO
Some efforts aren't lost causes but still make for a lot of work.
"If it wasn't my father's truck, I never would have rebuilt it," Rudy said.
That's how bad its condition was.
The fenders were cracked; Rudy rebuilt them.
He crafted the exhaust system, repaired the steering wheel himself.
"Know what they want for a (new) one?" he said. "$375!"
The steel poles supporting the slats around the bed had rusted away.
"I made these," Rudy nodded toward the dark-blue-painted poles that at first glance look like metal.
"They're cedar. It's light, don't rattle."
Rudy's nephew Jerry Meseck fabricated the U-joint.
"Wouldn't been able to run (the truck) without it, Rudy said.
The pickup's new seat comes from a place in Ohio that had to make its springs.
"The cab sets on wooden blocks -- no cab mounts," Rudy said. "That's why it rides like a lumber wagon."
Rudy started up the truck, and the engine roared.
He adjusted the choke, reining in the power.
"Runs like a brand new one," he hollered.
"Here's the horn," he warned, laughing. "Old cow, bellerin' moo!"
First time Rudy's sister-in-law Anna saw the reborn pickup, she cried.
After the Ice Storm of '98, when falling trees had further damaged the already decaying truck, parked in her yard, she'd asked Rudy to take it.
Her late husband, Jim, would have loved to see it now. So would Rudy's wife, Geraldine, who passed on last April.
As for Henry Meseck, who died in 1966, "he wouldn't believe it," Rudy said.
Restoring the truck and sharing its story keeps the memory close of those who have gone before him.
And it will keep them alive for those to come.
Rudy doesn't know how much the restoration cost him, all told.
"I never stopped to figure it," he said.
"You don't dare," Pepper chuckled.
And it doesn't matter anyhow. The truck's an heirloom now.
"It will stay in the family," Roger said.
smoore@pressrepublican.com
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