TheBakersfieldCalifornian.com

It was early December 1958, and we had recently lost our 1-year-old son, Sammy, to an illness he fought his entire short life. We were forced to declare bankruptcy because of the enormous medical and hospital bills. It seemed as though we had lost about everything except our 4-year-old son, Little George. He was now our only child and making him happy was our first priority in life -- and nothing would make him happier than a pedal-car racer for Christmas. But we had no money.

Etta, Little George and I were living on a tight budget. I was working for $75 a week as a speed mechanic for Lords Speed Shop at California Avenue and Tulare Street. A partner and I built a 1948 Ford into a stock car racer that I drove. We split the winnings if I finished in the money racing stock cars on the weekends. Little George was my biggest fan. He wanted his own little kiddy-car racer so much that I had to find a way to get him one for Christmas.

The year before, Santa had brought him a kiddy-car fire truck, which he named Ding-Ding because the big bell mounted on the hood rang as he pedaled down the sidewalk. Ding-Ding was his pride and joy for a few months,but he lost interest in fire trucks after he began attending the races, and by then Ding-Ding was ready for the scrap heap anyway. The poor fire truck was discarded in the scrap heap out behind our garage.

Though I didn't have money, I did have an idea, which I explained to Etta: "You find him a little racing helmet and I'll make a racer out of Ding-Ding."

Etta was skeptical, to put it mildly: "Do you mean you intend to try to make a race car of that beat-up piece of junk? You'll never fool that boy," she replied.

Not to be deterred, I loaded the bent fire truck into the trunk of our car early the next morning and took it to the speed shop to begin the job of transforming Ding-Ding into a pedal car racer. In my spare time for the remainder of the month, and with the blessing of my boss, I smoothed out and reinforced all the bent metal, repaired the steering and pedal system and sprayed black enamel paint inside and out to fully cover the original red paint.

The car, now transformed, looked like it was brand new. I painted racing numbers on the sides and applied racing decals liberally. I bolted a Hurst shifter handle to the right side and mounted spark plugs and wiring on the hood. The new car was really looking like a winner after I painted the wheels white. As a finishing touch, I made a leather seat cushion and rubbed on a thick coat of wax. I took care to cover any red paint with black so Little George would never know his new racer was Ding-Ding.

We closed the speed shop at noon on Christmas Eve and when the wife arrived and saw the finished car, she couldn't believe it was once that wrecked fire truck from the scrap pile.

As relatives arrived that evening, placing gifts under our tree, Little George took notice of each one. We knew he was hoping to see a very large package but when his bedtime arrived, no package large enough to contain a pedal racer was under the tree. I explained that Santa would bring more presents after he was asleep. When we were sure he had drifted off, we placed the car under the tree among his other gifts.

Early Christmas morning, Little George came running into the living room and began jumping up and down and clapping his hands as he saw the big package with a racing helmet sitting on it. He ripped the wrappings and was the proudest, happiest kid in town as he sat in his new race car and made all the vocal motor noises he had saved up for months. He couldn't have been happier if the car had cost a thousand dollars. Within minutes he disappeared down the sidewalk, into the fog, making so much noise the whole neighborhood knew Little George was ready to race.

Months passed and one day during the spring he had been having a morning of crash-bang racing with the kids next door. He came into the house with a concerned expression and sat at the kitchen table, snacking on cookies and milk. Eventually, he looked up at his mother and asked: "Mom, is my race car made from Ding-Ding, my old fire truck?"

"Why do you ask," his mom questioned.

"When the paint gets skinned off, it's red under the black and the kids say its my old fire truck," he said.

Mothers are experts at damage control, and my wife is the best.

"Yes," she replied, "it's old Ding-Ding. We couldn't find a pedal race car so your dad built the racer just like you wanted from your old fire truck so you could have the only one like it in town ... OK?"

With a broad smile on his face, he finished his snack, satisfied with his car's pedigree.

Our little boy continued to be the terror of the sidewalk racers in that Lexington Avenue neighborhood and proudly piloted his "one-of-a-kind kiddy-car" until he finally outgrew it and moved on to bigger and better adventures.