My Undying Love for Lucille – a 1963 Ford Falcon Sprint Convertible

As a young teenager growing up in Greenwich, Connecticut, navigating the daily commute to high school presented the challenge of a two-mile walk from home. Having already taught myself how to drive by the age of 14, I found myself yearning for a convenient mode of transportation as I eagerly anticipated my 16th birthday. I knew my mother had a special gift in store for me, and it would turn out to be my first and only car: a 1963 Ford Falcon Sprint convertible. Painted in a soft vanilla hue with a striking red interior and white convertible top, it boasted a manual transmission and what I felt was a powerful 260-cu.in. V-8 engine.  

Owning the Falcon was a dream come true. It not only provided me with the freedom to commute to school effortlessly but also offered endless adventures with friends, especially during the summer months when we’d cruise to the beach with the top down. It became more than just a vehicle; it was a symbol of independence and countless memories that I cherish to this day. 

After high school, I started my college journey in the bustle of New York City, commuting from Greenwich via the reliable Metro North. Despite the city life, the Ford faithfully transported me through sunny summers and treacherous winters alike. However, one fateful night after a gathering with friends, I made the careless mistake of leaving the keys in the ignition as the car sat parked in front of my parents’ house. The next morning, I was met with a sinking feeling when I discovered my beloved car was nowhere to be found. It had been stolen. With a heavy heart, I contacted the authorities and was advised to wait patiently, as it was likely taken for a joyride and would be abandoned once the thrill wore off.  

Sure enough, I received a call the following day informing me that my Falcon had been discovered abandoned in a desolate area of nearby Fairfield. When I was finally reunited with my car, I felt a great sense of relief. Though the Falcon bore a few dents and its battery was missing, thankfully there was no major damage. With a mixture of gratitude and determination, I had it towed to my parents’ garage, where it would rest and undergo repairs in anticipation of hitting the road when the time was right.  

I eventually moved to New York City to start my own fashion business and left my car in my parents’ garage. The Ford became a playground for my nieces and nephews who pretended to drive her on imaginary trips. Meanwhile, my father kept suggesting I sell the car for spare parts, which I strongly refused by explaining that the car not only brought great memories but also was a gift from my mother.  

As time marched on, I longed to breathe new life into my car. I entrusted it to a family friend who ran a modest repair garage in Greenwich, not far from my parents’ home. His expertise promised to revitalize the Falcon’s engine and electrical system, which would pave the way for a complete restoration of the exterior. Sadly, the mechanic I entrusted my Ford with let it languish outdoors for a year to endure the harsh elements of winter and summer. Because of my inadvertent neglect and misplaced trust, the exposure left my car with rust gnawing at the once-gleaming exterior. 

Determined to right this wrong, I arranged for the Ford to be transported to another mechanic in Port Chester, New York, who promised to restore it for a significant sum. It was another wrong decision. When I next saw it, the Falcon was a far cry from what I imagined. While the surface of the car appeared decent, it was a façade, concealing layers of body filler. The frame bore the scars of rot, riddled with holes, and the once sturdy floor exhibited signs of decay. The convertible top hung in tatters, while the interior remained untouched. 

When I voiced my concerns, the body shop personnel brushed them off, insisting that upholstery and the convertible top were beyond the scope of their restoration package. As if these setbacks weren’t enough, I discovered that the previous mechanic had neglected to address the electrical issues. This oversight became painfully clear as I tried to drive my Falcon to the Bronx to rectify the interior woes. Midway through the trip, the car came to an abrupt halt on the rain-soaked highway with a dead battery.  

In that moment of frustration and despair, realizing that it had been 20 years since I had last driven the convertible in its stunning as-gifted condition, I came to terms with the arduous road that lay ahead if I were to fulfill my dream of restoring the car to its former glory. 

Despite the setbacks, my resolve remained unwavering, fueled by the love and memories that the resilient car held within its battered frame. With my husband Mark’s unwavering support, I found the strength to tackle the challenges of restoring my Falcon. Inspired by the car’s original light complexion and fiery red interior, Mark affectionately named it after actress Lucille Ball. 

Drawing from his experience working at his father’s car dealership during summers while in high school, Mark offered invaluable insight into the restoration. Together, we found a specialized garage capable of addressing Lucille’s needs, and after a year of meticulous effort and countless visits, Lucille emerged as a near replica of her original state.  

Taking Lucille out on the road again filled us with pride. It was a rare sight to behold, not only within the city limits but also wherever we ventured with her. Weekends became synonymous with adventure as we drove Lucille to Coney Island and Jones Beach, and other destinations like Mystic, Connecticut, and Avalon, New Jersey. When not on the road, Lucille’s safe home in New York City was a garage on Avenue C and 16th Street, conveniently close to our East Village apartment.  

Then Hurricane Sandy arrived on October 22, 2012. From our eighth-floor apartment, the storm’s impact seemed minimal until news reports revealed the true extent of damage, especially in waterfront areas. Knowing the garage lay just two blocks from the East River, we rushed over only to find that the building had succumbed to floodwater. It wasn’t until the following day, once the water receded, that we were permitted entry. It was a grim sight. Lucille had been submerged up to her hood, leaving her soaked and covered in mud.  

It was back to square one, again, and this time we delivered Lucille to a mechanic in Branford, Connecticut, tasked with restoring her engine and electrical system. Located next door was a body shop ready to breathe life into the interior and body. We also rented a storage unit nearby where we carefully labeled and stored every part of the Falcon. 

Over the course of five years, we made countless trips to check on the restoration’s progress. Mark and I helped by reupholstering the seats and by painting various parts in the basement of our apartment. We also assisted with reassembly until Lucille was whole once more. The journey had been long and arduous, but the sight of our beloved Falcon restored to its former glory, and back on the road, made every moment worthwhile. 

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