The real challenge became finishing the front side. In 1952, Chevy called for the outer bars of the grill to be the same color as the body, Forrester Green in this case. The inner bars are meant to be Thistle Gray.

This paint from my Chevy supplier is actual body paint. As such, it is meant to be sprayed, not brushed. Having no access to spray equipment, I thus had to develop a technique for brushing paint that is not at all forgiving. Furthermore, this paint is so toxic that no matter the size job, whenever I even open the paint can, I have to be wearing my 3-M respirator.

The outer bars of this grill took eight coats of Forrester Green before I was satisfied with the look. The inner bars with their Thistle Gray took three coats, which was not easy to apply with the grill assembled. Still, the Thistle Gray is slightly more forgiving, so that helped me in the end. As a finishing touch, Chevy specs also call for a 1/8 inch pinstripe in Cream color where the inner bars curve to meet the green of the outer bars, but that will have to wait.

All told, the restoration of the grill took around two weeks, not including repair to the sheet metal on one of the grill’s vertical supports on one side or the reinstallation of the grill. To reinstall the grill, I used stainless steel bolts

Once the grill had been resurrected, with my trusty angle grinder I smoothed the sloppy welds with which someone had graced the bumpers. Then, they each received five coats of Thistle Gray, then only after several coats of primer. I remounted the finished bumper using a kit of those specialized chrome bolts in that familiar bold, round-head Chevy bumper-bolt style.**

I have replaced brake lines and hoses, master cylinder, bushings, draining and refilling the transmission and rear end with gear oil, dismantling every leaf spring and its respective grease fitting, literally digging out the sixty-three-year-old grease, then filling with new, rebuilding the shifter coupling, also digging out the original nasty, dry grease, repacking with new so she would shift, I have concluded that even though these trucks were designed for regular preventive maintenance, what most of them suffered over their lives was neglect because owners simply did not know or, more than likely, simply did not want to be bothered maintaining the vehicle. Sort of sounds like people today. I’m thinking that relationships have not changed as much as people are led or would like to believe.

The sixteen-year-old daughter of a man at my Chevy supplier was overheard exclaiming that she would love to own one of these old trucks. I said to him, “Oh, really? As the proud owner of one of these trucks, let me tell you how long your daughter’s interest in such a gift will last. It will last about fifteen minutes.

“Once she realizes how much work it is to drive one of these trucks, that she has to shift gears, by hand, herself, that first gear is not synchronized, meaning that she has to stop before putting it into gear, thus, no more California Rolls; once she realizes there is no air conditioning, CD player, or power steering, just a huge steering wheel instead, no power brakes, turn signals, or peppy acceleration, she will lose interest in the truck.”

I personally enjoy driving my Charlotte because she fits my personality. I was weaned on a 1963 Dodge pickup, also with three-on-the-tree shift, so driving Charlotte is like coming home. I tend to drive gently. I don’t speed nor am I reckless, and I stop at stop signs and red lights.

Every time we take to the road Charlotte receives stares of both wonder and curiosity, always a smile, and many a frequent thumbs up from gawkers who, in their passivity and their understandable ignorance, find Charlotte’s appeal only through her uniqueness, her refreshing breath from history, and the respite she gives people from their mundane lives. These onlookers have no idea what it takes to maintain her, even more so to drive her. Owning an antique vehicle is truly a labor of love.

In those six months of Charlotte little more than an increasingly-expensive lawn ornament, recovering then from surgery number seven, waiting for parts and services, I attacked as much as could attack in my condition the issue of mouse and squirrel nests, then the rust.

I went through about two gallons of phosphoric acid etch solution treating the cab floor, top to bottom, cab walls, doors, frame, in fact, anywhere I saw the slightest evidence of rust. I am aggressive when it comes to the issue of attacking rust, the same aggressiveness with which I attack injustice and corruption, unfairness and double standards, oppression and our safe, determined, comfortable thinking.

Afterward, I applied liberal coats of Rustoleum rusty metal primer, then Rustoleum black as a top coat. Inside the cab, the floor, walls, the doors, got still another coat, this time of Sherwin-Williams satin, another rust inhibitor, in the stock interior Chevy gray. Actually, the interior Chevy color is more somewhere between a champagne and brown, but I will leave that detail as a finishing touch. My Chevy supplier has this color in stock. This at least gets me on the road.

In the two weeks after bringing her home, but before my surgery, I built a bridge out of 2x8s, resting each end upon cinder blocks stacked outside on the ground. I didn’t want to force this old floor to support the weight of what I was about to do. Upon this bridge, I placed my small hydraulic jack and, with the aid of various lengths of 2x4s set between the jack and the roof, after much repositioning and trial and error, managed to push the cab’s roof dent back close to the original. The top is still a little wavy, but unless someone is extremely tall and knows what to look for, he cannot tell.

Using body filler to repair the rusted holes in roof, I smoothed and sanded to my satisfaction, then painted it with the original Forester Green. Eventually, I will replace the top with a factory replacement from my Chevy supplier, but for now this patch works and is passable, and it gets me on the road.

Now, on this Chevy truck, as is the case with most vehicles from that bold, proud era, the defining characteristic of the breed is the grill. This era grill is made up of many pieces which are meant to be painted according to a different plan, the plan dependent upon the year truck.

In 1952 and 1953, America was fighting the war in Korea, a circumstance which rendered steel, copper, and chromium in short supply. The popular chrome grills and bumpers on these trucks then unavailable as an option, on the new models these parts had to wear paint instead. Chevy’s beautiful color it dubbed Thistle Gray was the color of choice.

I had ordered the paint, gathered supplies. I thought this would be a cinch, but before I could paint over the faded, rust-stained beige some previous owner had sprayed the entire grill, I had to remove it from the truck. Rusted bolts occupying places where my hands, much less a hack saw, could not fit, I finally invested in an angle grinder, a tool that has become my trusted ally in this project. This grinder made quick work of the bolts.

It took both my son and me to finally pry the grill from between the fenders. At least thirty bolts hold that grill in place. Once it was off and in my workshop, I realized yet one more time that I had saved this truck from oblivion just in the nick of time. The outer bars of this grill were passable, as were the inner bars, but the deep surface rust on the back side of the grill took days of scrubbing, wearing out many wire bushes, quarts of phosphoric acid etch, and several sliced fingers to set things to rights.

Then, coating every square inch of the back, sides, and the insides, as well, with Rustoleum rusty metal primer, I finished up with a thorough coat of satin black, also painting all of the sheet metal right up to the radiator. The grill has now been frozen in time. I had done it.