Introduction

I’m a new REO Club of America member and the 1928 REO Speed Wagon ‘G’ (3 ton) is a challenge and a half. I’m writing this ‘story’ partly as a record but mostly in hopes of gathering advice and parts from other REO club members as I approach various stages of this restoration. My previous experience was with 50’s Studebakers more then 25 years ago and a dozen old motorcycles from the 30s to the 70s in between. Working on something as large as a REO truck will certainly be an adventure; one that I hope that other club members can assist me with – Geoff Collins, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4G 3P9 - (416) 347-6963

The Beginning

For almost a year I've been planning to visit Elliott’s Auto Parts in Newtonville, about 45 minutes east of Toronto. My cousin, working on a 1937 aluminum-body bus, had shown me the glass and cast aluminum marker lights on his bus and I wanted to use those marker lights as custom motorcycle turn signals.

The trip out was bound to be interesting for a number of reasons starting with picking a friend along the way to share the motorcycle ride. Charlie would not go on the highway, she was recovering from a root-canal and she hated the way motorcycles felt when you put on the brakes hard. I planned a north-eastern loop up and over the Lake Ontario cities of Whitby and Oshawa before dropping back to lake-level at Newtonville along Highway 2.

Spitting rain turned to heavier drops along the way but it stayed early-August hot so we didn’t mind. Numerous big hills and valleys later we finally dropped to the low plane rising from Lake Ontario. The rain stopped and the road steamed in the hot sun. The fast ride south and east along Highway 2 almost dried our jeans by the time we reached Elliott’s Auto Parts.

I’d only heard of this place but had driven by a number of times. A high, faded, board and scrap door fence topped by young trees prevents a view inside. I had to rely on what my elder brother James (Studebaker owner) and my cousin had told me – it was worth the visit. Elliott’s Auto Parts is famous for having car and truck bits going back to the twenties though nothing is in easily restorable condition due our cold and wet winter weather.

We took off our damp gloves, helmets and leather jackets in the gravel parking area and shook out stiff legs. Charlie, ever the trooper, smiled weakly saying she was okay though I could see she wasn’t. Access to the yard was through an old single-bay service station that was the Elliott brother’s office.

A restored late-40’s Ford tow truck, heaps of small parts leaning against all vertical surfaces and a long glass cabinet filled the dim space. The cabinet was filled with car and truck die-cast. I recognized scripts for DeSoto, Fairlane, GMC, Hawk, Chrysler, Monarch and Super Six on the top of the heap. A grand assortment of names and models peaked from below, none newer then 1965. They didn’t believe in wasting electricity so sunlight from the front picture window and open door was all that lit the place.

We exchanged small talk with George and Don (badges on their shirts) and they led us through the garage-office into a narrow hall that led out back. We were immediately surrounded by an assortment of engines, brake drums, axles, fenders, wheels, frames, steering gear and other related mechanical bits half-hidden in tall grass. I surrendered to the chaos without protest but had to lead Charlie down a mown path to the derelict buses I was looking for.

Along the way Charlie asked if I’d understood anything the Elliott brothers had said and admitted that I had no problem. “They don’t open their mouths when they talk,” I commented knowing how my rural cousins talked. Charlie hadn’t said much leaving me silently wondering if they’d understand her rural Jamaican accent. She wasn’t in a talkative mood, highly unusual, as we walked through rough rows of rusted ‘50s cars and trucks that had no meaning to her.

The wrecker’s yard had once been a huge field but after 30 or more years most of the rusty vehicles were now parked under a young maple forest. The row of aluminum-body buses was fronted by thick weeds and large trees grew between each bus. I told Charlie I wouldn’t be long and dived between a pair of old buses, entering one by its back door, to exit by the front door so I could check out the marker lights. Rows of small parts such as brake drums and generators replaced the long-gone seats in each bus. It didn’t take long to find what I wanted was gone. The pair of cast aluminum shells that remained could be pulled from the soft aluminum bus-bodies like pulling a ripe raspberry. The amber glass lenses I craved were missing, not even half-buried in the ground where they might have fallen.

Fortunately Charlie was still game to look around. She’d remained where I’d left her, fighting mosquitoes and the heat in a heavy long-sleeve shirt. As we trooped back to the office she spotted similar marker lights which I removed from old truck with a hammer and chisel. I took a few side trips into the woods to look at a long 50s Nash and pulled some trinkets with my hammer and chisel from a Terraplane (Hudson); the grill ornament would match the Hudson Built Steel Body pin that I’ve used for years as a leather jacket ornament.

Almost back at the office we passed a real find. A 1920’s REO truck sat back in the tall weeds. It was solid rust but appeared complete beyond the missing wood and fabric roof. The radiator sported a winged enamel pin that read: “REO.” I carefully pried it off with my wood chisel and it came out intact; aged bronze, blue, yellow and white after more then 75 years in the sun. I presented my handful of junk to the brothers in the office and Don blew a gasket.

“Where’d you get that?” he shouted with a rising voice. I didn’t get a chance to reply before he told me that’s why people like me weren’t allowed “back there” anymore. He calmed down as he realized, on his own, that at least I was being honest and hadn’t put it in my pocket.

“That REO is for sale,” he finally told me, “And I’m putting that badge back there (pointing to shelves above his desk). And that other stuff you’ve got’s worthy fifty.”

I pulled out a few bills and passed them over without haggling. He picked up the Terraplane hood ornament but didn’t complain about it.

“How much you want for the R-E-O?” I gamely asked.

“Fifteen-hundred. The yellow truck’s for sale too.”

“That’s okay,” I commented with a nod. Charlie still wasn’t talking and I looked at her to see if she was okay. “I want to take some pictures of that R-E-O before we go, is that okay?”

“Sure, I don’t mind, there’s no bugs in here,” she said with a little laugh.

I ran down grass lanes to where REO stood between the yellow Ford and an older Dodge. The REO was a rust bucket but it looked complete. A replacement wood running board had rotted off the driver’s side but a metal running board was solid on the other side. The instrument remained but the seat frame had collapsed. I took a few pictures from the front and both sides then ran back to the garage high-stepping over axles and other rusty debris like a training running back. Entering the building I could hear Charlie’s laughter and knew that things would be better from this point on.



“It turns over you know,” George added as I came round to pack my trinkets in a small haver-sack.

“You know,” Charlie began, “They didn’t have to get so mad. You could have put that thing in your pocket and they’d never know.”

“I’m too honest,” I responded with a silly grin. “I’m interested in that truck,” I added before I put my helmet on.

“Then you’re crazier then I thought you were.”

We continued back at a sedate pace along now-familiar back roads under a soft sun with birds springing out from the weedy thickets before swooped over the pavement in front of the motorcycle. After a big late lunch, and pleasant talk as we reviewed the day, I dropped Charlie off at the gates to her townhouse complex (no motorcycles allowed). When she took her helmet off she laughed, throwing her head back, her rasta hair bouncing, giggles and fun like the girl I knew. We shared a big hug.

“We must do this again sometime,” Charlie said with another healthy laugh, “when I feel better.”

As I rode away toward the fast highway I couldn’t help feeling that it was like a first date; the kind where the girl likes the guy so much they’ll go anywhere the guy wants. And damn, can I afford that REO?

Part 2: Bringing it Home >>