Jim Kennedy’s Car Collection

This 1969 Plymouth Fury III rolled off the line at the Plymouth Belvidere, Illinois, assembly plant on January 9, 1969. It was a sales bank car—the automotive equivalent of an orphan. Built without a dealership order, it was relegated along with other homeless new Plymouths to a vast storage area, waiting until Chrysler could force some hapless dealer to purchase it, or until a savvy dealer would agree to take it at a substantial discount. These vehicles were euphemistically labeled “Spring Specials,” and built to grab attention: this one was silver with a black vinyl roof and a pewter-and-black interior. The Fury III is presumed to have been shipped eventually to Greenwood’s Rambler-Chrysler-Plymouth dealership in the Cleveland, Ohio, suburb of Cortland, and appears to have spent most of its life in that area. 

 

I have only been able to trace ownership back to 1974, when the Fury III was purchased from its original owner by Erma Cole, a widow in Bristolville, Ohio. Mrs. Cole drove the car until 1992, using it to, among other things, haul wood and coal on a trailer. The original owner had apparently hand-painted the car forest green from its original silver color. After Mrs. Cole stopped driving, the car sat in a garage for three years, then was used by a niece for two more. That niece mentioned the Fury III to an acquaintance, Oscar Armstrong, and he purchased it in 1997. Mr. Armstrong was a retired union carpenter who was then dividing his time between the home he had built in Warren, Ohio, and a winter mobile home in Wildwood, Florida. His wife’s illness curtailed their travel, so restoring the Fury became his hobby project while he cared for her. In 2004, he traded the car for $3,000 credit against the purchase of a new Ford Thunderbird at Newton Falls Ford in Newton Falls, Ohio. When that dealership closed, the car was shipped to an affiliated dealership in nearby Solon, which listed the car for sale on the Internet.

 

While the Fury III was in transit between dealerships, I was experiencing remorse at having recently surrendered the 1973 Gran Sedan that had been my Route 66 ride. I embarked upon a search for a similar-era Fury, which eventually led me to the Fury III. More than any other Plymouth I have owned, this car resembles the cars my dad owned when I was growing up; in fact, it is very much like the 1971 green Fury I piloted through my first driver’s test. After a few phone calls, I found myself one mid-December day in 2004 on a flight to Cleveland, eager to collect my new classic.

 

My plan had been to drive my prize east to a garage in Massachusetts. On a map, the drive between Cleveland and Boston appears to be a straight shot along well-maintained highways. A map, however, only provides so much information. It does not, for example, distinguish between traveling the same highways in July and, say, December. It does not explain the concept of “lake effect snow” and how that phenomenon affects travel along the southeastern edge of Lake Erie. And it does not factor in the unique experience of traveling in a newly-purchased 35-year old vehicle with the words “AS-IS” and “NO WARRANTY” stamped prominently on the contract flapping around the drafty passenger cabin.

 

I was about 45 minutes east of Cleveland when the snow started. A few minutes later, I discovered neither the heater nor the defroster worked. Twenty minutes later, I learned the dashboard lights were not operable. The headlights did work, although the right one seemed permanently fixed skyward towards the Big Dipper. My first travel day ended early; my second consisted of battling frostbite and chattering teeth while I hopped from rest stop to rest stop along the New York Thruway. Sipping hot chocolate in a paper cup while sitting on a plastic chair in a sterile travel plaza never felt more like Heaven.

 

Upon arrival in Massachusetts, I admitted the Fury for extensive rehabilitation with the first restoration company that returned my call. Thanks to the heroic efforts of several repair shops and restoration facilities, the Fury III now proudly cruises the back roads of Marin County, California, lights beaming bright and properly focused, heater and defrost snapping into action at the flip of a switch. In a small nod to my past, the car’s California license plates bear the same number as our family Furys did in Massachusetts, back when these dinosaurs roamed the roads.