As many of you most likely already know, I am a great lover of vehicles. I have several, but up until recently I didn't have one I could afford to drive very far. My first and foremost, my working partner, is my four-wheel-drive Ford. It gets gallons to the mile instead of the other way around, but it has power by the bucket load. At one time or another, it has ended up being the only thing I have to drive and probably will again.

There is something about being in the cab of a four-wheel drive truck when most folks are riding around "beneath you" in a car. Of course, all good things must come to an end.

Now the owners of the once-mighty 4x4's are forced to bow down to the lords and barons of gas mileage. Imported cars with engines rated in CCs are no doubt selling in a big way on car lots across the country. So much for the big American engines with 350 cubic inches or more. I even went as far as looking up the new gas mileage rating on the Internet. What I found out? Two models of Volkswagen, one the new Beetle and the other the Rabbit or some other bug or animal, are tops in that market with 70 miles-per-gallon burning diesel fuel. You don't usually see domestic cars with bug names. We go for bigger Spanish names for some reason: El Dorado, Coupe De Ville, Gran Torino, El Camino, De Soto, etc. I suppose a name like that would be too big for a Beetle, the name plate would run right off the back end of the car. And just forget putting the car's name on the dash.

So, like I was saying, when the price of petrol went through the roof, the likelihood of me being able to afford to cruise around in my truck dropped significantly.

I have made a vow, "Never again will I succumb to temptation and buy a new car." There is also a disclaimer, "Unless I get filthy rich and have so much money that it begins to mold away in the vault beneath my mansion." Not likely on my paycheck.

So it was time for a sojourn to one of my friendly neighborhood junkyards. I was reading an article by Jim Strawbridge the other day that spoke of cemeteries being places of peace. I liked that idea, but I find the same peace in an automobile graveyard. Where else can you look at hundreds of cars and trucks and never have to deal with a salesman? Where else can you buy a vehicle for the price of one single payment on a new car?

As an added benefit, I like to imagine the stories some of these old cars might have to tell should they ever learn to speak. Like whether that old 1949 Ford coupe was used to run "shine," or if that old International truck ever in its life left the county that it's still parked in right now. Perhaps a gangster owned that old Chrysler or that big Super Chieftain over there. You never know.

After I had looked around for a little while at the cars and trucks I was really interested in - older models with lots of work needed and big motors that would suck gas like an Electrolux on dust bunnies - finally I got practical and found a mid-80s Cavalier that didn't look too bad. I asked the fellow, "Does it run?"

"It did when it got here," he said. It pays to have a good relationship with the man at the junkyard. I knew he was telling me the truth. After we dickered on the price for about an hour, I bought it and "fixed it up."

I found Cadillac wheels to go on it with pretty decent tires. These beauties came out on one of those little Caddys that never sold very well. The wheels were aluminum and cheap and the Cavalier was sitting on rims in mud, so they looked perfect to me. Next, I reworked the brake system. Soon after that I started wondering why someone would junk a car that only needed wheels, tires, a tune up, cleaning up, adjustment on most parts, painting, body work with parts welded and brakes replaced. I forgot valve cover gaskets. Sounds like most of the cars I have ever owned.

I sprayed off some of the mud and cleaned the garbage out of it, tuned up the engine and got the mouse refuse out of the vents. For some reason the mice always love to build in vents. In the older cars, you can usually find them in the breather.

On the seventh day, I rested and was pleased with what I had created.

From a worthless hunk of refuse, I had made transportation that would take me back and forth to work and save me plenty.

Afterwards, on the eighth day, I went to lunch with a friend of mine, who claims to read my column every week. I suppose I will know pretty soon when she calls me. The first thing out of her mouth, in a tone of disgusted disbelief, was, "Is that your car?" Now I admit it's sagging a little under the rockers and the paint is a bit faded and blackened by age, but it looks like a mint to a guy who was driving a monster truck to the grocery store.

"Yes, it is," I replied, jerking on the stubborn driver's side door handle while trying to look cool, all the while glancing over the roof and getting a glimpse of the little yellow three-digit junkyard lot number on the top as I answered her. "So what if there are a few dents and dings, and the front spoiler is knocked loose, and there are those places on the trunk that look like baseball bat damage, and the rear bumper cover is ripped and...." That was where she interrupted me and said, in a tone also saying be careful, "See ya later."

But, hey, I don't ride on the bumper and I don't get in the trunk, either. I seldom ever look at the trunk, unless of course I am sticking something in it, at which point the lid is raised anyway. And for the occasional hapless possum that sees the underside of the front spoiler while I am driving it, they won't be around to tell anyone. I even got a free bumper sticker about what smart kids I don't have going to Elk Creek Elementary School. I started to take it off and I was afraid the bumper would fall off, so I left it alone. Most people have to have kids to get one of those. As for my vehicles and the reasoning behind them, most of the time there wasn't any. Some of the older ones have been purchased for their age or their beauty or a combination of the two. But from now on, most of what I plan to drive every day is going to be purchased for the sake of practicality.

Practical is usually better, and always cheaper, than beautiful or old.

My parents tell me it is expensive to grow old, but I have noticed that they get discounts almost everywhere.

At any rate, I suppose that practical is good. So then, since I am now practical, does that make me good?

Probably not, but it does make me affordable. Rather practical, isn't it?

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