On the morning of 7/10/2021 Saturday–purely on a whim–I set sail (amid maximal swearing and cursing at my phone; it–for totally unfathomable reasons–took me to . . . nowhere, when time was short) for New Richland—a place I had never even heard of before–let alone visited.

      Here he is–Herr Cougar—in all his "glory":

      The woman behind the counter, had to write my identification tag—as my writing was illegible.

       :) :)

      I asked said woman, if I could get a cup of coffee around here.  She told me that there was "A Feed," around the corner, at the fire hall.  From the way she said it, I could tell—that "A Feed" in the Midwest was a Proper Noun.  New one on me.

      So I followed down to the fire hall, and around the corner, and . . . jackpot!  One thing about the Midwest, it has good food—and the kind that sticks to the ribs, no Boston-style yuppie crap here.

      The atmosphere, of "The Feed," was that of the saddest VFW I had ever seen.  Seriously, there was this guy–in his late seventies–DJ'ing.

      Cars, cars, cars—with Herr Cougar, there, on the right.

      Oh, wow. A flathead V-8. Hadn't seen one of these in a while.  I had read–saw a video, actually–about how these were limited in efficiency, by their design. . . .

      Simpler times:

      That–ladies and germs, various transgendered and hermaphroditic beings–is a Gremlin.  The Dude who owned it, said he couldn't enter into the competition—as he was running it.  Politics.

      It's virtually impossible to see in the picture—but both the intake and exhaust manifolds . . . are one piece [of metal].  I have never seen that before, and it might go some way towards explaining, how this 240 cubic inch I-6 has proven so peppy.

       :) :)

      And this is "Barn Lady."  A picture there—shows what she looked like, only three years ago.  I think I voted this one "Best of Mopar."

      This sort of thing, always gets to me:


      At this point, a "Model A" pulled up.

      Followed, not long after, by this dragster.

      They were waiting, for an end to the rain.  (. . .)

      A Mach I. I have only seen two of these—in my entire life.  (This is the second.)

      I spoke with the guy in the photo, after I took it.  I told him, that these things have a 534 cubic inch engine—and an exhaust note, like a bass viola.  He said that he'd heard it go past his place a couple of times, and that "It sounded like it could go fast."

      The Mach I's had a 534 (!!) cubic inch engine, weighed about as much as a Tempo—and didn't handle worth a crap.  That's why there aren't a whole lot of 'em left.

      A Model T, then rolled in.  (!!) (It's engine, didn't sound all that different—than my 1985 Subaru.  (. . .))

      No instrument cluster.

      Here they are—all in a row: A 1919 model year, a 1931 model year, and a 1977 model year:

      Say what you will, but . . . all Fords.


      The Model T, is a 102 year old car.  Suddenly my boast of, "Yeah—and the 8-track player still works!" . . . doesn't ring so loudly—or proudly.

      This show went on, for hours.  At one point, an older woman came up, and positively ferociously hit on me.  'T'was soo pronounced, at one point, I very nearly suggested—that we trade places.  That way, we'd have . . . wait for it. . . .

A cougar in a Cougar

      ( :) :) ) However, I didn't know how that would go over.

      Also, this guy came over—and seemed to decide, I was his best friend, or sumthin'.  He even gave me, one of his treasured car magazines—and made sure, I'd be back, next year.

      Don't'cha' just hate—someone, who doesn't know what they want?

      (Of note, I didn't notice, the base of that sign, was shaped like a "Chevrolet chevron"—until I started fitting these pictures, into the page. . . .)

      A view of under the hood.

      And all this was in. . . .

      From what I could gather from the locals talkin', the guy who did all this, is in . . . non-ideal health; but still does great work.  I think either that either this, or the other Bel-Air, won "Best of Chevrolet"—and the other won 2nd best in show.  Well-earned, both.

      Twin . . . Gremlins, side by side.  The one of the left was "souped"—and rattled the windshield of Herr Cougar, as it thundered by at little more than idle.

       :p :P

      The Gremlin holds a perhaps unique "niche" in automotive history—it has, perhaps, the greatest number of potential engine size options, of any car, ever—five, ranging from 2.0 to 5.0 litres.

      A goth chick, at a classic car show??  My mind hunted for a fundamental dissonance—but ultimately found none.  Later, I saw her boyfriend, had her on this sort of "full body leash."

      Sometimes I stop and realize—just what a sheltered life, I truly lead. . . .

      I thought this one was neat—with the matching toy car, kitty-cornered on the hood.  And next to it, a 6.6 litre (~400 cubic inch) engine, on such a light frame—must'a' been a LOT of fun, there.

       :) :)

      I couldn't believe what was happening.  I sent a text.

      Herr Cougar won a prize!!

      And I got a response back, to my text:

      I called my Dad (in Pennsylvania).  He was very pleasantly surprised—and quite happy for me.

      He asked me what the prize was; I told him it was a gift certificate, to a local restaurant—and I'd probably burn over its value in gas, getting back here to redeem it.  He suggested, I just use it now.  That never occurred to me—that's why he's the engineer, and I'm the scientist, I guess.   :p ;)

      So, I set about to finding the place—"The Willows."  When I asked the locals (and I asked several) they all pointed downtown, and said things like "on, or just around, the corner."

      When I got to downtown (a (very) short walk), all I found were seller, after seller, after seller.  The entire downtown, had been converted to a strange cluster, of low-rent shoppes.  However, no "The Willows."  I was tired; I was "socialization weary"; I was wanting to get out of this place. . . .  So, I did the 21st century thing— and entered "The Willows New Richland" into my phone.  AMAZINGLY, it popped right up.  WHAT?! A fifteen minute drive?!

      As near as I've been able to surmise, the locals–en masse–do anything and everything, to lure out-of-towners, into their "mall"—and keep them there, and by any means necessary—sort of like "Harvest Home," just without the blood sacrifices, and ****.

      I get it—there's not much here; and people have to survive. . . .  But I found all this . . . kinda' spooky (and annoying).  Eventually, I got to "The Willows"—and was brutally overcharged, from the prices they quoted me.

      Sigh. . . .

      Well, there you have it.  Hope you enjoyed this little journey.

Herr Cougar won a prize.  (!!)