Growing up in a small town in Oklahoma in the 1950s, our main recreation was working on, and drag racing, our old Fords and Chevys. My best friend was a wild and crazy guy named Bill Bullock. Bill was up for anything, anywhere, and went on to race sprint cars on the West Coast.
Bill’s dad owned the local Hudson Agency, and in an effort to hold down his extracurricular activities, bought him an old, clapped out ’46 six-cylinder coupe. We kidded Bill unmercifully as he tooled around the town leaving a cloud of black smoke behind.
Mr. Bullock had an almost-new black Hudson convertible with a big straight-eight engine that was his pride and joy. It had a huge set of steer horns on the hood and it was the lead car in every local parade and rodeo. Most of the time, it sat in one corner of the shop, kept spotless by his yard man.
One Friday evening, I got a call from Bill. His first words were “Lon, get over to my house. My folks are out of town and I’m going to switch engines with Dad’s parade car.”
He reasoned that his dad never drove it fast and he would never notice.
Mr. Bullock was pretty good sized and, in my mind, a man to be reckoned with. I came up with several objections, but Bill would hear none of it. An hour later, we were in Bill’s back yard with the hoods up on both cars and the chain hoist hanging from one of the larger limbs of the biggest pecan trees in the Bullock’s back yard. Sunday evening, we wrapped it up and returned the “Black Beauty” to the Hudson garage, spitting and sputtering.
For the next two weeks, we terrorized the stoplight drag racing scene in Lawton. Gone were the sneers and snide comments. We had a wonderful time.
However, I got another call from Bill around 7 p.m. on Tuesday. “I’m on my way to your house.” he said. “I’ll have to stay with you for a few days.”
Turns out, Mr. Bullock decided to take the parade car out for a little spin. Upon his return to the garage, he told his best mechanic to do a little tune up. “She’s got no power at all,” he said. A few minutes later, the mechanic, trying not to laugh, said “it looks like Bill switched engines on you!”
Mr. Bullock did not see the humor in all of this, and it took about a week for things to settle down enough for Bill to return home.
 Years later, I saw Mr. Bullock and his wife at a local restaurant and mentioned that I was the one who helped Bill with the switch. Although Mr. Bullock was around 80 at the time, for a few minutes I was looking for a quick way out. Then he broke down with laughter.
Lon Parks
Lawton, OK