Growing Up Hot Rod: Memories From My Dad’s Garage

Some of the earliest memories that I have of my dad are watching him work in the garage, whether hunched over an engine, making repairs for the house, or simply tinkering away. Dad was a do-it-yourselfer long before the term “DIY” became part of our popular culture … he did these things out of necessity, and passion.

The home I grew up was a standard 1960s tract home with a basic two-car home garage, yet it was anything but ordinary. In that garage, magic was made, memories were created, and daddy’s little girls were often lectured about life, something that continues into adulthood.

Bert Vervoorn has had a lifelong passion for automobiles, and started building hot rods as a teenager. A resident of Camarillo, California, he and wife Jan have been married for 53 years. The have three daughters and seven grandchildren.

Growing up, my two sisters and I (and most of the neighborhood kids) did not not know too many other fathers on our block who were as ingenious as ours, and our friends were always asking him to fix stuff. We knew dad could fix, build, or make anything better, no matter what we brought forth — bicycles, wagons, toys, and even broken hearts. In fact, I do not recall bringing something to him that he couldn’t figure out a way to fix, or make just like new. Dad was something of a miracle worker in the fix’em-up department. He still is today.

Underneath the window overlooking our front lawn was my dad’s workbench. He made it from reclaimed wood found while in the field when he worked as a land surveyor for the State of California, a profession he excelled at for more than half of his life before founding several successful businesses of his own.

It was sturdy and strong, and easily able to withstand 100 years of calloused hands, heavy tools, and endless fabrication. Plus, it made a perfect desktop to help with our homework. A heavy vise was anchored to one end, and a handmade rack was secured to the wall, with glass baby food jars containing odds and ends just within reach.

As a 19-year old, and newly married,Bert started purchased a 1929 Ford Model A and built it up from existing parts, motor, transmission, body, and panels. He bought the chassis from a junkyard and did all of the bodywork himself, including the application of 20 coats of Washington Blue he hand-rubbed to a beautiful shine. The fenders were also 20 coats deep, in black and lacquered, with Tacoma Cream wire wheels and matching pin striping he taught himself to do. The build took four years and was complete in 1965, the same year his first daughter was born.

While there was room in the garage for the things the rest of our family possessed, the garage was clearly my dad’s domain. This was a lesson we learned early in life — the garage was always meant to be kept tidy and ready for action. In our youth, black lines and the initial of our first names were painted on the concrete floor of the garage to show where our bicycles were to be parked  — not on the side of the house, not next to the car, or in the center of the garage — but rather in our personalized parking slip. Dad was not kidding around; we all lost our bikes at one point. It was not so much that he was a neat-freak as much as he was teaching us the value of organization and responsibility.

I vividly remember the afternoon he trapped a giant tarantula in the garage with a stick ripped from a nearby tree, scooting it in a cardboard milk carton, while my mom stood huddled in the doorway with three screaming little girls. While not a fond memory (because, eww, spiders) it is, I think it is the earliest memory of I have of my dad as a hero.

A brilliant craftsman, my dad has made a living working with his hands, and can craft just about anything he sets his mind to. Take for example, the yellow Volkswagen Beetle that was towed home one day as a project car. A self-taught welder, fabricator, auto architect, and a lifelong hot rod maniac from his youth, dad transformed it into a marvel of a dune buggy from the random pieces and parts he salvaged.

This 1934 Ford 3-Window Flathead Coupe was one of Bert’s favorite driver hot rods. He affectionately nicknamed it “Maybelline.”

I remember many nights standing near the garage after dinner, peeking around the corner as he welded the contraption together. Through the sparks, there stood my dad, bent over the metal chassis in a full welding mask, gloves, and coveralls like a modern day Henry Ford. I stood in awe back then, as I do now, at the projects he takes on and teaches others — all designed in his mind and drafted on paper, and then brought to life with a drill press, jigsaw, and torch.

We had so many different cars growing up, but the one that stands out in my mind most is a bright sunshine yellow Pinto wagon. Seriously. I loved that car. Next up was a beast of a Buick, a chocolate brown station wagon with faux wood siding. Equipped with a V8, my mom said she loved having all that power under her foot, and she used it often. The apple did not fall far from the tree, as I also enjoy having all that power at the pedal. But, that is another story, for another time.

From there, our family graduated to a more classy car, a light blue 1976 Pontiac Grand Prix, complete with a white vinyl half-top and matching white interior. My sisters and I could barely see out from the deep back seats, but thought the small accent window behind the B pillar was ever so fancy. There was a succession passenger vehicles in the many years that followed … specifically GMC and Chevy trucks and Cadillac sedans and coupes, which my mom still drives today. In fact, Cadillacs were a constant, and mom drove many, ranging from four-door DeVille and CTS sedans to El Dorado coupes outfitted (pimped, dare I say!) with oversized, polished center grilles, typical of 1980s decadence. 

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Bert recently took delivery of another 1934 3-Window Coupe, and has a build sheet (aka wish list) already started.

Hot rods, on the other hand, were a common staple in the garage and shop for my dad, as much as they were in his youth as they are today. In fact, as I write this, he has just taken delivery of another 1934 3-Window Coupe and has a build sheet (aka wish list) already started. We all anticipate nothing short of perfection, yet he insists it will be a driver, and enjoyed to the hilt.

God bless my mom for supporting his love of hot rods. As a 19-year old and newly married in 1962, he started building a 1929 Ford Model A from the ground up using existing parts, motor, transmission, body and panels. He purchased the chassis from a junkyard and did all of the bodywork himself, finishing it with the application of 20 coats of Washington Blue paint he said was hand-rubbed to a beautiful shine.

That’s me, on the hood of the ‘29. I was four years old in 1969 when my dad finished the build. Mom says the “ahh-olga” sound of the old horn made me laugh.

The fenders were also 20 coats deep, in black and lacquered, with Tacoma Cream wire wheels and matching pin striping, which he taught to himself by practicing on the refrigerator in the kitchen. Mom said he would paint, then wipe away, and repeat over and over (sometimes late into the nights) until he was sure he had the hang of it, and could duplicate it on the car. Now that is old school! In all, it took dad about four years to complete his first real build, and at 23 years of age (in 1965 when I was born), he and mom were tooling around town my two-year old sister and I in the back seat.

My parents always enjoyed participating in car clubs and shows, and there always seemed to be a project car (or two, or three), in the garage, mainly Fords. In 1987, and in their ’50s, they bought a real hot red ’32 convertible roadster. This was followed in 1990 with the purchase of my dad’s favorite hot rod, a 1934 Ford 3-Window Coupe equipped with a flathead engine. He affectionately nicknamed it “Maybelline.”

Starting in 1997, he worked with Sam Foose (Chip’s dad) to design an award-winning 1937 Ford Cabriolet. It was named “The Dreamster,” because it was dad’s childhood car dream come true, and had everything he had envisioned over a lifetime, and more. It won countless awards of significance, including grand prizes at Goodguys 1998 Rod d’Elegance in Pleasanton, California; was the Grand Sweepstakes build of the 1998 Portland Roadster Show in Oregon; Best of Show winner at the Boise Roadster Show in Idaho in 1988; and Class winner and second-place overall at the 1988 Grand National Roadster Show in Pomona, California as America’s Most Beautiful Roadster. 

After the prestigious accolades, this gorgeous car appeared in more than 40 print magazines nationally and worldwide, and was featured in countless advertisements for wheels, paint, chrome plating, and exhaust companies, and many more.

All of 10 years old, my mom says I insisted on having my photo taken with our 4×4 Chevrolet truck while on vacation at Lake Shasta. This truck pulled a full load to the lake, including a packed-to-the top ski boat.

Dad always had something up his sleeve, though, and for my mom’s 56th birthday, surprised her with a cherry ’56 Chevrolet Bel-Air two-door post, followed by another ’56 Chevy Bel-Air hardtop a few years later, which our family all instantly fell in love with. It was the epitome of coolness in looks, and was powered by a throaty big-block V8 that shook the ground through dual chrome exhausts.

Is it any wonder his children and grandchildren begged to take a drive for ice cream on a Sunday afternoon? I literally cried when he sold it just over two years ago and bought an RV so that he and mom could travel around the U.S. Knowing dad, he never stopped pining for another hot rod, and we all are enamored with his new adoption of his latest project. He said it will be the last hot rod he takes on. I know better than to listen when a hot rod enthusiast, especially my dad, says that’s it. Never say never, right?

I guess what I am also trying to express through these memories is that the true measure of my dad’s garage is not only the hot rods he brought home and built, but rather the impetus that it is a confessional of sorts. The grace propels us as a family, as a life force. It was, and is, where my dad walks the well-swept floor and ponders his future, past, and loved ones. The cars, bikes, timbers, and tools have been a backdrop to arguments, resolutions, and forgiveness, and where tears over tragedy and joy have flowed openly and freely.

It is also where boyfriends were lectured about daughters, daughters were lectured about boyfriends, and all of us were (and are) counseled on life, marriage, and parenthood. My sons learned to rig fishing rods, clean their rifles, use hand tools, fabricate, build, weld, wrench on cars, and read maps in a Thomas Guide book to plot adventures the three of them would take one day in his Jeep (we are a family of off-road enthusiasts, too).

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Mom and dad in their bitchin’ 1956 Chevrolet Bel-Air Hardtop. (Photo courtesy of FJB63 Studios)

Whether fabricating cars, serving as a workshop, or just a place to shoot the breeze, my dad’s garage is so much more than just a big shop with a roll-up door. It is a sacred haven of blood, sweat, and tears where wisdom is imparted and lessons about life are passed on to new generations.

In my lifespan of 51 years, I have grown to understand and appreciate that the greatest treasures found in my dad’s garage are what we seek most: love, acceptance, solace, direction, and hope. It is where childhood dreams intersect with life, and where he is most at home. The garage is as much a part of my dad as his heart, and no passing of time will ever change that.

Happy birthday, Dad.

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